


The Hunter

by FourthAxis



Series: Hunting Grounds [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, Ko No Mono, M/M, Manipulation, Mizumono, Naka-Choko, Shiizakana, Su-zakana, Suicidal Thoughts, Tome-wan, dark!Will, that one scene where they eat bird but actually suck cock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:29:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1508864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourthAxis/pseuds/FourthAxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ch1: Events following 0208: Su-zakana     //  Ch5: Follows 0212: Tome-wan<br/>Ch2: Follows 0209: Shiizakana                 //   Ch6: Follows 0213: Mizumono<br/>Ch3: Follows 0210: Naka-Choko             //    Ch7: Post-Mizumono<br/>Ch4: Follows 0211: Ko No Mono<br/>---</p><p>He could still hear the trigger’s click ringing in his ears. A clever game, all pretend. That's what this was, a play. Predictable. Maybe. Was it? </p><p>  <em>You're a good fisherman, Will.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story begins at the end of 0208, as Will threatens to kill the social worker as phase one of "Let's lure Hannibal Lecter into the light". Each subsequent chapter is tied to and follows the episodes as they go, with its own additions and slight deviations. Each chapter came several days after each episode aired. Only 5, 6 and 7 were written after the finale.

He could still hear the trigger’s click ringing in his ears. A clever game, all pretend. That's what this was, a play. Predictable. Maybe. Was it?

_You're a good fisherman, Will._

The man cowering before him could not equate to who he wanted looking down the barrel of his gun. Not even close, not even a proxy. The gun itself was also an excess in that fantasy. But this wasn't a fantasy. Very much reality. But still a game. Right?

 _You need to create a reality where only you and the fish exist._ Hannibal took a hold of his wrist as he slowly extracted the gun from his feeble grip. _Your lure is the only thing it wants, despite everything it knows._ He was right as always; this act would have been a vengeful display on someone else’s behalf, sprinkled with copious amounts of projection. Not worth it, not worth another jail cell. Worth Peter’s innocence, but Will has a job to do. A fish to lure. Just games, you see. Planned and predicted. Hannibal’s hands stopping the trigger, his own finger reflexively trying to pull it again and again. Planned and predicted. _Right?_

A cold snap back to focus was Hannibal’s hand on the side of his face, his thumb pressing against the shell of his ear. It seared his skin like frostbite. The muscles at the back of his neck went rigid like stone under Hannibal’s fingers. He felt like he could only move his eyes if he wanted to. He didn't.

“With all my knowledge and intrusion, I could never entirely predict you. I can feed the caterpillar and I can whisper through the chrysalis, but... What hatches follows its own nature and is beyond me.”

Such words of compliment from the egomaniac in a suit of flesh. Was he earnest? Will’s eyes betrayed him and the glimmer of cheer he saw on the face of Hannibal Lecter scared him like little had before. The reflection of himself in the other man’s eyes was unrecognisable. Had he fallen that far? A changed man he was, but that much? Whatever’s necessary. This was still a ruse, a clever game, a hunt. No. _You’re a fisherman, Will._ Not a hunter. Never a hunter.

He had to break the eye contact; it was becoming too much, too painful, and his skin was still searing. He closed them shut, saw stars, and finally let his arm rest by his side. The ever present feeling of Hannibal’s prideful smirk never left him, even less so when the man used his well positioned had to pull Will towards himself. His head was resting on Hannibal’s shoulder and a disgustingly pleasant smell of cologne filled his nostrils. At that moment, he almost understood it. He understood Hannibal’s reaction to his own scent, and he had to bite his lip. Nerves ablaze, there was an anxious laughter bubbling up inside him, begging release. A laughter for the realisation, for the entire situation, for the loaded gun, for the man who crawled out of a dead horse, for Peter’s ruined life, for Will’s inability to help him, for... The need to laugh died as quick as it came. It was no longer funny. It never was. Hannibal’s hand caressing the back of his neck least of all.

+++

The ranch was washed with red and blue lights in constant motion. Will was leaning against a car watching the police and ambulance rush around. They were taking Peter away, but also his social worker. One of them was being treated like a killer, the other like a victim. An utterly unsatisfying conclusion to an unsatisfying day. All too painfully similar and so very disappointing. Will took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes and lowered his head away from the lights. It wasn't all as bad as it seemed. They could still... The evidence might...

He heard footsteps behind him, someone approaching. Like a snake, a hand slid over his back and gripped his shoulder. Three layers of clothing and he could still feel his skin burn under Hannibal’s touch.

“You should go home.” He spoke with his usual low and smooth tone. Apropos of a well mannered psychiatrist. “You need some rest. It’s been a long day.”

“I should,” is all Will says. His vision is blurry from all the rubbing but he can still see him in the corner of his eye, standing right beside him draped in half-shadows.

“Would you like me to give you a ride home?”

There were a million and one better options to that. Walking, for instance. Asking Jack for a ride. Calling a cab. Asking another officer for a ride. Walking. _No_ was the one and only answer on his mind. “Yes,” is what came out when he spoke.

The fact that the car he was leaning against was Hannibal’s... All far too ironically amusing. He couldn't help his sardonic grin as the good Doctor Lecter held the door open for him to get in. _How close was too close?_ Will sat inside and avoided strapping the seatbelt. _Not close enough._

+++

The ride back to Will’s house was spent with very few words exchanged. Hannibal’s choice of car music was filled with slightly more uplifting cellos, but they did little to wipe the grimly look off Will’s face. The few words they did manage to exchange were no more than meanderings about Peter’s fate and favourable evidence.

As the car approached Will’s house, Hannibal decided to ask a question to which he knew the answer already, or assumed as much. A trite and tedious question but it served its intended purpose. “How do you feel, Will? You seem much distressed.”

Will didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead but his mind was miles away. Hannibal pulled one of his hands away from the steering wheel and placed it on Will’s knee, middle finger tapping the knee-cap, requesting attention. As if the presence of his hand was not attention enough. He noticed subtle tension in Will’s shoulders as they slowly pulled back. With equally slow movement he turned his head towards Hannibal, brow furrowed, and asked “Are we in session, Doctor?”

He watched the other man through side glances, but most of his focus was still on the road as all good drivers should. “As a psychiatrist I have a professional obligation to ponder such questions when I see my patients go through a day of hardship and distress.” He pulled the car over in Will’s front yard and let go of his knee. Before he stepped out of the car, he turned to Will and added, “As a friend, that obligation becomes moral.”

As he exits, he keeps enough of an eye on Will to see him close his eyes to hide their roll, and his lips press into a thin line barely holding back a bitter grin. A lovely reaction, if not fairly predictable. But for all the amusement Will has given him today, Hannibal decides not to hold it against him too much. He opened the door for Will who takes his sweet time getting out of the car and straightening his coat. He makes a point of locking eyes with Hannibal as he removes his glasses, unblinking.

“Unsatisfied,” his answer comes with an accentuated first syllable and sharp delivery. His tone might have something to do with Hannibal’s invasive proximity and his hand still gripping the car door, preventing much chance of sliding out and away to the safety of his house. But Will didn't look like he wanted to flee. Not one bit. Hannibal tested his theory by letting go of the door and Will didn't disappoint.

“Such frustrations should not be bottled up. They can lead to terrible experiences,” he tested Will’s resolve by leaning forwards just a little, but enough to cause even more discomfort and agitation.

Will responds with neither as he shifts his weight from one leg to another. His pose is more relaxed then it had ever been that night; elbow resting on the hood of the car, head cocked to the side and eyes filled with curious irritation. “I’m open to suggestions, Doctor.”

Like the context of his words, there is a certain openness about the way he said it. An invitation. Truly, it would be a great shame to let it go to waste. A curiosity long left unsatisfied finally gets its moment of fulfillment. And Hannibal nothing but enjoys the way Will’s pupils expand as he leans further towards him. He enjoys the way the muscles in Will’s neck tense to the extreme under his fingers again. He enjoys Will’s stubborn refusal to move an inch even as his nerves loudly screech for a retreat. It takes him a moment to close his eyes, and another to finally part his lips and teeth. The taste is divine and Hannibal can’t help but ponder what it would go well with as his tongue prods the inside of Will’s mouth. He wonders if the other man had forgotten the game he set out to play as it takes another moment for Will to join in this strange exchange of tastes.

But when he does, the kiss turns into a different beast. Angry. Bitter. Maybe even a little murderous. Nothing short of immensely enjoyable for the good Doctor. He knocks Will against the open car door, pushing their bodies together. The kiss turned to a sanguine taste and it would have gone further, much further than Will would ever want to reasonably take it, but... Alas, mustn't be rude. He felt Will’s hands pushing at his chest so their lips parted and Hannibal took a hefty step backwards, giving him plenty space.

The other man looked much less of a mess then he’d expected. Truly, Will was committed. His eyes were downcast as he nursed the wounded lip with his tongue. A light tremor was present in his hand as he brought it up to his mouth and wiped it with his thumb. He licked the blood and spit off his thumb and threw a sharp unflinching glare at Hannibal. “How’s Dr. Bloom?”

Hannibal couldn't help but crack a smile. Always the martyr, always the saviour. She had so few good things to say about him lately, yet here he was, still doing his best to get her out of the line of fire. Hannibal nods, sharp smile never once threatening to fade away. The point has been made. Its fulfillment is yet to be seen.

“Good night, Doctor Lecter.” Will turns to leave and with little rush or haste makes his way towards the house.

“Good night, Will.” Hannibal offers courtly and slams the car door shut.

+++

There is no shower in the world that helps Will feel clean that evening. His flesh still sears where Hannibal touched him. He still tastes death on his tongue and the fifth bottle cap of mouthwash does little to remove it. He doesn't even think of eating. Doesn't even fathom sleeping. Tonight his dreams would be untrustworthy, chaotic, wrong.

He settles on his bed with a book after the third shower. Winston joins him not long after, places his head on Will’s thigh and whines. He lowers the book to pet the dog and gives him to most reassuring smile he can muster for that evening. “Don’t worry boy, I know what I’m doing. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Giving little credence to Will’s words, Winston continues to whine softly. It turns to a sad, wistful tune because tonight his master isn't home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon the grammar/semantics, dyslexia makes a poor companion and Word spell-check is my only beta-reader.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ch2 - Follows Shiizakana (0209)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some [mood music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DLfy5jthDDs&list=UUVHOgH4XEyYx-ZEaya1XqCQ), perhaps?

“No one can be fully aware of another human being unless we love them.”

Will takes a slow, calculated step forward. The whistle is still ringing in his ears, or maybe it’s the wind. It doesn’t matter. The rope tightens.

“By that love, we see potential in our beloved. Through that love, we allow our beloved to see their potential.”

He stops for a moment only to whistle again, and the rope tightens even more. His feet continue pacing towards his prey - the beast that would be prancing around in fake flesh were it not for the bondage.

“Expressing that love, our beloved's potential comes true.”

Will wonders when he’ll stop feeling these words get to him. No, it’s not just about the words; it’s who they’re coming from. A judgement so cold and methodically brutal can only be given by someone who’s experienced ultimate betrayal. That’s what this is all about, _isn’t it?_

“I promised you a reckoning,” Will says as his pace stops before a creature that finally shed its fleshy guise. One that has plagued much of his mind. One that left imprints on it, _on him_ , so deep that Will doubts getting rid of them is even possible. And _it_ still wasn’t done. But neither was Will. “Here it is.”

The raven stag moves further once again, but no matter the tightness of the ropes, the creature of coal and shadow barely flinches, staring impassively through Will’s eyes. Through him. Through everything. _Everything._

A deluge of red wakes him. The sheets are tearing between his gripping fingers but he can’t let go, not before he’s certain this is his ceiling he’s looking at, his bed he’s resting on, his sweat covering him. Deep and slow gasps of breath ring through the room. They are his own. So is the room and so is the bed. He releases the grip on his sheets and wipes his forehead, praying not to find blood. He still feels it, being drenched by _his_ blood. _Who’s blood, Will?_ It was just a dream.

He sits up and a shiver passes through him even though he feels himself boiling on the inside. The book that was keeping him company slides down the bed with a loud thud. A few of his dogs rear their heads at it and Winston, laying at the side of Will’s bed, picks the book up and puts it back on the sheets. Will gives him a gentile stroke behind the ears and right then and there he feels a third of his restlessness dissipate into nothing.

He gets up from the bed, relearning how to walk as he makes it to the kitchen. A glass of water is what he needs. And a shower. Both. But his mind can’t focus on anything other than his twisted desire... and those eyes. Oh, those eyes! They saw _everything_. Through it and through him. There was no room for lies in this game of chess. In this hunt.

Will shook his head violently at the last thought. He needed water, he needed a shower. He went for the whiskey. Something had to wash the taste of death still clinging to his lips and mind.

+++

The therapy session following last night’s events was expectedly personal and intimate, even though most of the words that were being exchanged were laced with poisonous disdain. But they weren’t lies. There was no more room for lies here. The reluctant admittance on Will’s face only helped sell it. _Sell what?_ There were no lies. Only regret. A playback in his mind of a gun never fired now rectified properly. It did feel good, _didn’t it_? Hannibal knew it; he saw it on Will’s face. Another confession of needs and desires and Hannibal’s voice goes down to a low, pleased whisper. His look darkens with satisfaction and tongue laps over his lower lip, methodically and exactly where Will’s faintly visible cut still was. This fish was more predator then prey, but it was almost nibbling at the lure. Such progress brought a comforting feeling of success to Will, amid all his unease. Even confiding his unpleasant thoughts came with its own delight, for last night was all kinds of utter disappointments.

Still, Will did not feel right in his skin for the rest of the day. Only on his brief visit to Peter did he allow himself a moment of levity and earnest smiles. His input on killing would prove to be crucial on the grizzly case Will was working on, but faith would not allow him even one brief moment to forget what was _really_ happening.

“W-with enough time, there’s a great deal I-I could train even you to do, Will.”

Peter’s words are fragmented and filled with need to assist; a playful response to the questions directed at him. But the words hit Will like a blunt hammer to the stomach and he can only answer with the understatement of the century.

“That kind of friendship can keep you on your toes,” he even manages to pull out a smile as he wonders when words started hurting more than bullets.

+++

Will comes to his office for another session exactly one time, not a minute too late or early. It is, though, with great disappointment and a personal displeasure that Hannibal has to inform him of unexpected paperwork that required immediate attention. Will shrugs out of his coat and makes little of this news as Hannibal sits behind his desk to make quick work of the chores. He keeps an eye both on Will and his work as the other man starts to pace around the office. He talks about the new murder with no incentive from Hannibal. A couple this time, slashed to ribbons and gnawed to pieces much worse than the trucker had been. _He has gotten better,_ Hannibal thinks briefly as his mind makes connections between the beastly assailant and an old patient. But that would have to wait, as he has thing to finish and a curious man to distract him.

Will circles the office with languid movement that still manages to be smooth and deliberate. The immaculate dress code he has lately employed is a lot more casual today, indulgent even. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows and all though it may be a few degrees warmer today, it doesn’t excuse or explain the undone buttons at his collar. He continues to offer more insight into the profile of the suspect as his eyes dart around the office, curiously, as if he hadn’t seen it a hundred times before.

He stops pacing at Hannibal’s desk and drops a lean shadow over him as he bends to cast eyes on a schedule book not meant for him to see. Hannibal looks up and he would have stared him down into obedience for such impudent behaviour if it wasn’t for his own sense of smell. He looks back down at the papers to hide the crack of a smile that dares to spread. _He changed his cologne._

“You’re being rude, Will,” Hannibal said with a lot more fondness in his voice then he’d like to and closes his schedule book.

“Shouldn’t have left it open,” a soft spoken yet sharp rebuke is all Will offers in his defence. He turns his back to him, hands gripping the edge of the table as he uses it to sit. _To sit_... Had it been anyone else, Hannibal would have been greatly vexed. Fortunately for Will, he wasn’t _anyone else_.

Hannibal gets up to set aside his books as their conversation continues of beasts and rage. A pleasant back-and-forth develops between them and Hannibal asks of Will to elaborate his insistence that rage is not what fuels this _mystery_ assailant.

“Instinct,” Will leans backwards slightly and turns his head to look at him. “The way he thinks...”

They exchange a brief look that sent both men a shivering sense of nostalgia - sentimentality attached to a time when both of them worked together under much more amiable conditions. _Instinct indeed_. Will’s eyes are the first to falter at the pressure, unsurprisingly, but his head is slow to turn back. Hannibal abandons his work and steers the conversation back to some much more relevant territory.

“Can you imagine tearing someone apart? Or would you rather use a gun?” he asks as he walks over to the front of the desk and sits next to Will.

“Guns lack intimacy,” came the expected reply.

Hannibal nods and tests the waters with another question. “You fantasize about killing me with your hands. Would that be more satisfying then pulling a trigger?”

The reply is a quiet _‘Yes’_ that somewhat cracks in Will’s throat. His head is slightly turned towards Hannibal, just enough to not come of uncivilized while speaking to another person, but their eyes never meet as Will stares off at random paintings on the wall.

“When you sent a man to kill me,” Hannibal continues, “were you imagining killing me yourself? Living vicariously through him as if...” he notices Will’s throat bob as he swallowed what must have been a rock. “As if your hands tightened the noose around my neck? Or were you simply hiding?”

He takes a moment to come up with a sidestepping answer, “I wasn't hiding from anything the first time I tried to kill you.” Their eyes almost meet but Will opts out of ruining his brisk answer with needles eye contact.

“You _were_ hiding. Behind the gun,” Will says nothing at that, lips sewn shut. He turns his head away and fixes his gaze out the window. Hannibal gets up and, taking a step towards him, he means to do nothing more than rest a hand on Will’s shoulder; a friendly gesture. But curiosity takes precedence and his grip slides up towards the exposed flesh of his neck. He rests his thumb on the pulse and is pleased to find it a steady beat. Equally pleasing is the lack of tension in Will’s neck. Hannibal can’t help but feel satisfied with the progress of this game. He leans down, closer to the other man’s face, and whispers “You must allow yourself to be intimate with your instincts, Will.”

Will gives him nothing else but a side-eye stare, and Hannibal would be ready to call the nibbling of his lip an unconscious action if it wasn’t so _provocative_.

His masterpiece was coming to completion but it was still lacking a few key ingredients. Looking through his books, Hannibal found the culprit, fed Jack some clues and went to visit the boy himself. Randall Tier wasn’t a boy anymore though, and his progress was a pleasure to hear about. But even with his pneumatic toys and savage instinct, at the end of the day Randall would only be a serviceable dish offered to a much more dangerous predator. He feeds him a few lines to sell to the inspectors when they come but he knows Will will smell them out for the prerecording that they are. And he expects to hear about it on the next session but instead he finds more curiosity aimed at his _work_ and even warped compliments.

“I believe your therapy was successful,” Will said with a faint quirk of his lips. “You can be very persuasive.”

+++

Home is the only place where he still gets to feel like himself. No fancy coats and dress shirts, no need to comb his hair five times to look decent, no need for perfect posture and even less need to sit like a dignified human being. Like right now; he was slouched in his armchair, both feet on the coffee table. Ha had a book in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. Lately Will found the strong liquor to be a soothing friend in the late hours of the day. Too often, perhaps, but it really wasn’t surprising. It’s the circumstances, you see. It helped him relax. Unfortunately, the same medicine can’t be applied to dogs.

The whole pack of them has been on edge for the evening, and in the last five minutes their growling escalated to a worrying bark aimed at the front door. A wrong move costs Will and eager corgi through the door.

“Buster!” he yells after him but the dog stormed off into the darkness of the surrounding woods. His nerves start tingling with worry when he hears the barking silenced. _Something’s wrong._ The first thing he goes for is the shotgun; the jacket he barely remembers to grab.

Will follows Buster’s trail in the snow. He didn’t get far into the forest thankfully, but his heart sinks and tightens in pain as he finds his little friend wounded. The feeling of being stalked rends him even more, so he hastily pickup Buster up and high tails towards safety as fast as his legs can carry him through the snow. He knows what this is now. He risks turning his head back once and his can almost see it, prowling after his tracks from deep in the woods. Faster. Faster! This game doesn’t allow retries.

He reaches the porch and slips carefully through the door so no more dogs can endanger themselves. Only after he’s made sure Buster’s relatively fine is he ready to play. He gets his breathing under control as he pulls the curtain, locks the door and shut off the lights one by one. He knows his role and it doesn't not involve running. The last light goes out and he sinks into the darkness. The dogs quiet with him. It almost feels like an outer body experience, like he himself is a secondary spectator of his own car crash happening in slow motion. _Self defence._ Nothing more, nothing less. Right?

A feral beast crashes through his window and so begins a game that was rigged from the start. There was only ever going to be one victor in this battle of... what? Beasts? Men? _Victims?_ It was hard to tell. The lines blurred. The eyes chose not to see. The mind made its excuses. The victor was left to call himself whatever he pleased.

After packing the gift in his car, Will makes one last round towards his house to drop off the comfortable, faded jacket he enjoys lounging in for the elegant coat.

Game. Set. Match.

+++

“I'd say this makes us even. I send someone to kill you, you send someone to kill me.” Will’s eyes finally break from the corpse sprawled on the table and look to Hannibal. “Even-steven.”

Hannibal nods and finds it hard to hide the swell of pride on his face, so he doesn’t. He pays little attention to his former patient’s corpse mussing the table because all of it is focused on his pet project. And oh, what a thing of beauty. All his long hard work and nourishment had finally paid off with delicious fruit. And he knew, Hannibal knew the angel was still falling, he knew that this job was not yet done, and that this game wasn't yet over... But he couldn't help indulging.

Will looked worn out, exhausted, a familiar old mix of stress and fatigue. There’s an underlining wetness in his eyes that might be the fault of weariness, and might not. His knuckles are ruined and bloody; a clear indictment of how things went down. Hannibal expected nothing less. He lifts Will’s hand with tender care and with no fanfare licks the marred flesh, taking in Will’s wincing face with delight. He must have washed his hands before coming here because all Hannibal can taste is Will’s own blood, but it did little to soothe the actual wounds. Nothing the good Doctor couldn't fix, though.

He looks at Will, smiles, and offers his words of praise, “Excellent work. You fail to disappoint, beloved.” He deserved them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoyed writing this but it kind of feels redundant. Pretentiously redundant. You'll be the judge of that :/  
> Seeing as I've committed to something, I stopped where the episode stopped because _dat preview yo_ also canon-cramming for some reason (why the fuck I think that's a good idea, I will never understand...)  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows 0210: Naka-Choko

“Don't go inside, Will.”

He wasn’t hiding. No, no, just thinking, reining in all the scattered thoughts and fragmented ideas. There was a jitter inside his head – justifiable, understandable even. Circumstances such as these would drive any man or otherwise up the wall and into their quite little space, far from the noise of anything and all living.

“You’ll want to retreat.”

He had it all wrong. Will wasn’t running, he was planning; assembling a composition. It’s just that...

“Stay with me.”

It’s just that it was hard to think of anything worthwhile in this mess. It was hard to concentrate when the hands tending him were unbecomingly tender and careful, like they were handling broken china. Well, Will had enough self-awareness to admit that much; he probably did look like a man filled with cracks.

“Where else would I go?” Will said, less like a question and more a statement. And he meant it in more ways than one. Randall was waiting for a debt to be repaid; an apology to be crafted from him. _An apology to what? This was self-defence._ Except no one enjoys self-defence, not when it ends in death. Not when it wasn’t even Randall’s face staring back at Will through blood soaked eyes. He was barely even aware of the person he was actually hurting. How very dehumanizing.

“How will you repay him?” Hannibal asks.

“I’ll give him what he wanted.”

The machinations of Dr. Lecter were still a mystery to Will, but he provided. Even when Will said nothing specific about his ideas, Hannibal provided exactly what he wanted. He took a day, but his timing was impeccably sharp. He left Will alone with his skinning knives in the shed; it was his piece of work and his alone. Putting it on display though, exhibiting the work to the world would be out of his hands, that much he guessed. Hannibal may have been a lot more trusting, but there was still a mountain of secrets to uncover – to be let in on. It felt like a cripplingly long way to go but an opportunity would eventually present itself. And they would understand. Everyone would understand. _Jack_ would understand. Surely.

+++

The shunned Verger sibling appeared once more at Will’s door at an ungodly hour. She practically invited herself in but who was Will to say no to the expensive looking whiskey bottle that came with. A few drinks in and some meanderings about rearranged furniture, therapy and life, the goal of her visit became clear yet dumbfounding.

“I don’t have the right parts for your proclivities, Margot,” he said and didn’t quite know whether to find it an insult or a complement when she failed to retract her proposition of sex. He didn’t know her, not really. She might have been a capricious rich girl who changes whim as often as she changes shoes. She might have been a desperate woman tired of life’s misgivings. She might have been a cunning temptress with ulterior motives. Ultimately, he didn’t care; he wanted a cure, a quick fix, something to take the edge off, something more than a drink. Loneliness wasn’t the factor here, he got used to it, got used to sharing it with the wrong _friend_. Frustrations from too much contact of the _wrong_ kind, that’s what bothered him.

_Might as well._

It wasn’t hard to turn this act of mutual exploitation in to something completely different, not with his vivacious mind. It was almost too easy to squeeze his eyes shut and imagine someone else, someone he wanted. When he opened them again he saw Alana Bloom’s dark hair spilling over him, her tender lips gracing his own. Unfortunately, even in Will’s own imagination did she not come liberated from the nightmare she was bedding. Maybe even right now, right at this moment... _Right in his bed_. She turned away and gave Hannibal a long sensual kiss, but then she came back to Will like an eager messenger tasting of _him_.

He turned her over, laid her down on her back away from the other man’s clutches. A shuddering moan passed through her and she wrapped her legs around him, pushing him deeper inside. He almost ruined the moment with another kiss and, God forbid, he almost thought this was going to be a pleasing mockery of sex. But it wasn’t, it couldn’t be. The spectres of his mind had solid shape, a familiar and unwanted one. _Wrong, wrong, wrong..._ The mind gave him exactly what he wanted - Alana below him, so very real and softly, kissing his jaw line. Regrettably, it didn’t stop there. There were things he knew but didn’t want to consciously acknowledge. Things like the uncanny yet familiar hands ghosting over his back, the gruff but refined breath stuck in his hair, the intoxicating smell of sandalwood. _I don’t want this._ The press of Hannibal’s body against his back pushed him down further, lodging Will firmly between Alana and him. _I don’t want this._ Rough hands grabbed his hips, but the squeeze of Alana’s legs around him was no less painful. _I don’t—_ She claimed his thoughts and lips with her own, drowning out his muffled whine with her moan. Cold, hard tendrils were spreading inside him, thrusting, filling him with fears and desires.

It’s in shambles – his mind is in shambles, he doesn’t know what to feel. Even his thoughts seem alien to him in this moment. Where was he again? Was this a dream? He felt awfully aware for a dream yet lacked any semblance of control.

Alana reins control of his focus again with a low, pleasured sound coming from her parted lips. He can’t feel his hips move, can’t even concentrate for more than two seconds on anything other than the searing flesh grinding above and below him, familiar voices panting in his ear, nails digging into his skin, a firm tendril – a creature in its own right – squirming inside him. He feels himself tense like a tightrope and barely holds back the noises prying their way out of his throat.

Hannibal grabs him by the throat and the touch is rough and tender at the same time. Menacing and lovable. _I’m listening._ Will turns his head at the whisper and sees Hannibal, but his vision glitches and at moments he sees something dark and terrible. _I’m listening to you._ The whispering is a soft caress to his ear. _You and I went so long in our friendship without touching._ Will closes his eyes as a kiss lands at the crook of his neck. _And yet I felt attuned to you._

And for a moment again, he thinks of giving in, abandoning reason. He was up to his neck in wrongdoings and poor decisions, this would be the least of them. For god’s sakes, he skinned a man! He thinks of allowing himself to enjoy this tender sweetness below him and rough lust above him. The screeching of his sanity gets ignored for a piece of pleasure but not even that lasts for more than a moment. There was never any control to this fantasy. Everything was a ruse. The bite he receives from Alana is shocking, but the one he receives from Hannibal is painful. _Don’t—_ He doesn’t even get to finish a though or a word or anything before Alana takes another ravenous bite from his shoulder and this one tears at his flesh. He feels warm blood pool and drip around her bite. He would have screamed but the thrusts that threaten to split him asunder with pain knocks all the air out of him. _Stop_ is the last pleading word on the tip of his tongue but he can’t even say it. A black hand of coal clasped shut over his mouth, twists his head, and Hannibal bites right through his throat.

He wakes with a twitch and little else, commendable after the dream he had.Among all that’s happened lately, a few odd dreams could barely make him flinch anymore. Margot was getting dressed and ready to leave. No care about waking him. No care about the whiskey bottle she brought with herself. He was counting on the last one. All of this was a joyless experience that no one took pleasure from.

The bottle didn’t last the night.

+++

The visit to the Verger meat factory left Hannibal feeling quite enthusiastic. Not only did he procure himself a feisty little piggy for diner, he may have as well procured one for some therapy session. Mason Verger was a special kind of snowflake Hannibal was dying to dig deeper in. A curiously disgusting man. His kind of special had only one end-game in sight. The disrespectful treatment of his own _sister_ won him no favours with Hannibal. But that was a story for another day.

Hannibal unbuttoned his jacket and sat down across his patient. “Well,” he began, giving Will a look over. “You look unrested,” he left it at that. Perhaps the recent changes in lifestyle have been keeping him up at night.

“I had some issues with sleep last night.” Will didn’t look particularly terrible, mostly just exhausted. There was a lazy weight to his eyes along with some faintly noticeable dark circles.

“Anything you would like to share?”

Will gave him a cautious stare down, maybe even a little nervous; simple pleasures in life Hannibal still enjoyed. He picked his next words very carefully considering the amount of time it took them to come from Will’s parted lips. “Cannibalism.”

A more amusing topic he couldn’t have asked for himself. Hannibal leaned forward, hands clasped together and elbows resting on his knees. “The symbol of cannibalism in dreams can come with many interpretations. Proper context is needed to deduce the true one.”

Will gave him nothing.

“In general, cannibalism can symbolise a need to reconnect or establish a relationship with the one we’re consuming. It can also represent a possessive and selfish need to control said individual. Who were you consuming, Will?”

Will shook his head lightly and responded, “I wasn’t.”

“I see,” Hannibal smirked. Will’s hesitation to reveal more details made this dream sound a lot more complicated than a simple case of two people nibbling on each other. “A fear of losing ones self, ones individuality. A fear of ones privacy being exposed. Or simply,” Hannibal leaned back in his chair and finished his vague diagnose, “stress from work.”

The concluding words lightened Will, drawing out a chuckle. “Yes,” he agreed, “that one’s got to be it.”

The session passed with little fanfare and plenty of aimless chatter. The topic of the dream was barely touched upon; Hannibal saw no point in pushing something his patient clearly didn’t want to discuss. That fact alone clued him in on more than a few omitted details concerning the aforementioned dream.  

Will was readying himself to leave when Hannibal came up behind him with an offer of dinner. “With friends,” he added as he fixed the improper folding of the collar on Will’s coat. “Alana will be there. The two of you could use some friendly rekindling,” he said with a cool smile and tapped Will’s shoulder when finished. “You could also use some proper food.”

Will looked at him over his shoulder, an eyebrow shooting towards the heavens. “Proper food,” he repeats with bemusement tugging at the corner of his lips but he chooses to sigh instead. “Why not. How is Alana, anyway?”

“She is well.”

“I bet,” the words come dripping with cynicism.

+++

The dinner turns out to be more than a little uncomfortable. Surprisingly, it had little to do with Will’s dream and everything to do with Alana’s prying questions and suspecting glares. Will found it a little hurtful, truth be told, but by now he was used to it. Something did come out of the gathering, though; an opportunity.

“Freddie Lounds thinks the two of you are a paradox,” she begins, eyes shifting between the two of them like a hawk. “She believes neither of you is the killer she's writing about, but together you might be.”

That’s all it took. Freddie’s fate was sealed; she was as good as dead. The short look he exchanged with Hannibal confirms it for him. In all honesty, Will was surprised she lasted this long without making herself a target for the Chesapeake Ripper. A sign of good survival instincts or poor journalism? He couldn’t decide. It was a good thing he had an appointment with her tomorrow, another one of those stupid interviews he agreed for. A remote location like his residential area was almost too perfect to disappear from. The alternative was not acceptable. Alana steered the focus of the conversation back to them directly.

“Your relationship doesn’t seem to know any boundaries - patient and therapist... friend and enemy.” He doesn’t mean to, but Will’s eyes look for Hannibal’s to see what he’s thinking. ‘ _Nosy’_ is the opinion they both share. “It’s just hard to know where you are with each other.”

“We know where we are with each other,” Will said with a bright irritating smile. “Shouldn't that be enough?” He hoped that was enough to persuade her from drawing any more targets on her back. Begrudgingly, she continued eating in silence. Will was thankful for that.

Hannibal looked like he was stuck between two dogs fighting over territory – slightly amused but mostly confused. “Better the Devil we know,” he said before offering to refill anyone’s plate.

Next day Will called Miss Lounds to come in earlier. She did and she _snooped_. Predictable and disappointing. He might have been a little inconsiderate when he presented himself, but she shot at him. Wouldn’t even listen. _Some journalist._ He enjoyed tearing hair off her obnoxious head a little too much, but that was all her fault. She pepper sprayed him _and_ left a distressful message on Jack’s phone. Inconveniences, but nothing he had the time or want to worry about.

He had unannounced dinner plans in mind tonight, with meat he would bring. Oh hell, he might as well bring all the ingredients. The meat took a while to chop and clean, but it was just the amount of time he needed to prepare mentally for what he was about to do.

+++

Will’s voice mail wasn’t quite an unforeseen occurrence as the other man would have probably hoped for. They did all spend a hefty portion of the afternoon in Jack’s office discussing the unfortunate disappearance of Miss Lounds. Hannibal had his suspicions considering he spent three hours contemplating and generally wasting time in a plastic suit surrounded by furniture of poor taste.

“I’ll drop by tonight. I hope you are not having any guests over for dinner. If you are, you should probably cancel it.”

The voice sounded smug but playful. There was a promise behind it, a potentially interesting scenario that made Hannibal ignore his boorish demand to drop whatever he had planned for the night. There were no plans, but had there been Hannibal would have probably cancelled them. This game was too fun to ignore, and above all expectations Will was still playing it. It made him proud and all the more interested. So interested, in fact, that he changed suits for his guest. Something about this evening called for _crimson_.

Will rang the doorbell at eight PM sharp, looking equally sharp.

“I provide the ingredients and you tell me what we should do with them,” Will presented all the vegetables he bought first, and the meat last. It was packed neatly in brown paper which he slid over to Hannibal’s side of the counter.

He unwrapped the meat and offered a few speculations on its kind after Will refused to say. “Veal?” He took a better, closer, look and a whiff. “Pork, perhaps?”

“She was a slim and delicate pig,” Will said with too much amusement in his voice.

 _That she was._ Hannibal smiled. He handed Will one of his sharpest knives and the offer to make the meal together. “You slice the ginger,” Hannibal told him and was not disappointed by the enticing smile he got in return.

The meat wasn’t a disappointment either, even though it tasted a tad bitter. Beginner’s mistake. Will’s choice of words certainly made it worth it. “The meat is bitter about being dead,” he said and they both shared a snickering laugh.

Will’s entire behaviour for the duration of the meal was wonderfully amusing. Hannibal had a difficult time coaching his eyes to be polite about it. The way the other man ate, savoured every small bite, chewed, swallowed and licked his lips – a flirtatious indecency. And oh, that poor fork. The obscenities it had to go through being dragged slowly through his lips almost every single time. It was a little hard to be polite about it, hard for the eyes to not linger for too long. Will caught him once but Hannibal made little of it besides going for his glass of wine and saluting him with a gentile tipping motion. Will followed suit and leaned back after taking a long sip.

“I hope you realise by now that I won’t be reduced to a mere set of influences. I'm not the product of anything.”

And that he certainly wasn’t, not any more. This mercurial product of its own self threatens to be a well of amusements and enigmas. Just the way Hannibal likes them.

After they finished their meal, Hannibal took both sets of dishes to the kitchen for a quick wash. Will followed him, bringing the glasses and resting them in the sink as well.

 “Would you like some dessert?” Hannibal asked, tiring of this game. Not _the_ game, just this particular waiting match that was currently playing. Will obviously wanted to prolong this for as long as possible, but Hannibal found himself lacking patience this evening.

“I didn’t notice you made any,” Will said, throwing a curious look around the kitchen.

“I didn’t have to,” he was rinsing off a knife as he gave Will a slow, leering look over and added “It came prepared.”

Will’s amused expression was the first warning sign, taking a seat on his counter was the second and his words were the third. “Only if we eat here,” he said with a smug grin.

Hannibal’s grip on the knife handle tightened. He moved over to Will and placed the knife in the wooden holder next to him a little too harshly. “That’s not really an option.”

 “It’s the only option you’re getting,” was Will’s cool response. He reached out to fiddle with Hannibal’s tie, dragging it out of his waistcoat.

“Surely,” he moved in closer as Will’s legs parted, “I can convince you of—” his breath got cut short. Will wrapped his tie around his fist and dragged him towards himself with an angle to it; just enough to make it a bit difficult to breath. “Playing dangerous, Will,” he hissed out.

“Take it or leave it, Doctor Lecter.”

The words were a hushed sound against his lips, as they were nearly touching. Hannibal wanted to tear into them, rip them apart for their insolence. But that would be in poor taste, there were so many better things those lips could do for him. He briefly mulls over dousing his kitchen in cleaning products come tomorrow, and settles to take what’s being offered. Unlike the first one, this kiss they share tasted about as smarmy as Will’s own words. It promised a joyful experience everyone would take pleasure from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took needlessly long to finish. Laziness mostly :/ Also yes, dream cannibals have tendrils for cocks because why not make something creepy needlessly creepier? The idea of the “I’m listening” lines being aimed at Will came from various tumblr metas and frankly, it fits too well to be anything else! Hope you enjoyed this exposé of bleh~


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows 0211: Ko No Mono

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to **thewatcherscouncil** for proofreading!

“Bones and all?”

“Bones and all.”

The Ortolan was still fiery under the touch of his fingers. The head he grabbed it by felt firm and Will wasn’t sure how he was going to bite through it, how he was going to bite through _all_ of it. Hannibal held his, so called, delicacy close to his mouth but did not give signs of wanting to devour it any time soon. Will had to try this one himself first, or so the eyes told him – ever observant, patiently waiting. Will tipped his head back. He made peace with what he put in his mouth during Hannibal’s dinners. This would actually not even be the tip of the ice berg of odd meals his body absorbed. At least it wasn’t _people_.

He opened his mouth and laid the bird on his tongue still scorching, but it did not take away from the bite. Nothing could. The moment he bit down, tiny razors were slicing at his gums, at his palate, and he tasted his own blood. He’s been tasting it a lot lately, usually through other catalysts. The peculiar mix of tangy copper, soft innards drowned in Armagnac and roasted flesh was an experience of flavours he had never tried, and probably will never again. As he crunched through the small bird, further mangling the inside of his mouth, he let the mix of hot Armagnac and blood slide down his throat—

 _—slide down his throat. It was hot and salty and terribly disgusting but his stomach didn’t flip, didn’t lurch, didn’t even get the memo it was supposed to hate it. It made sense when he thought about it. Far worse substances found its way down Will’s throat. Like a human e—no, no, no. She was not a memory he needed to summon now, not with his lips wrapped around a cock his teeth were edging to bite off almost as much as his tongue was eager to.... He drew it out of his mouth slowly and gave the tip a hard-pressed pass of the tongue. Mustn’t dirty the floor, he’d hate that._ Give him what he wants. _Doesn’t matter how much his knees hurt. The hard wooden floor was particularly ungrateful to anyone who spent time kneeling. Very uncomfortable. But that was, yet again, the least of his worries. This entire situation was a worry. A disgusting, foul debauchery he never wanted to partake in. But had to._ This was a job, dignity be damned. _And his knees hurt, and he hated it, and the taste wasn’t nearly as bad as he had hoped it would be, and he needed to undo his fly because it was becoming too tight, too—_

Euphoric, it really was. Hannibal was right in his depiction of the first time he had this God-fearing meal. Except this particular one had very little of that. No hoods over their eyes to hide their enjoyment of the sinful meal. No one wanted to hide, Hannibal least of all. He passed Will a tiny smile and a quick nod before he himself threw his head back and downed the Ortolan. The crunching sounds were almost as loud as the ones in his head. A predatory display of power over a meaningless little life, yet it brought a great many shades of pleasure on the other man’s face. Will watched his intense expressions of joy and noticed how hard Hannibal clenched at the silverware, how he wrapped his hand around—

 _—wrapped his hand around the base of his cock and slid it inside his mouth. Will was slumped against the counter and felt slightly defeated, slightly frightened, slightly... He felt a lot of things, not one of them good yet each enjoyable in its own right. The Lord’s name kept trying to leave his mouth, as it usually does during such acts. But he wouldn’t let it. Wouldn’t be appropriate. Not in front of_ him _. There were no gods here who listened to his pleads of salvation. Well, there was one, but he had no intentions of_ saving _Will from his own pleasure. And he wished Hannibal would just bite it off, kill him right here and now, be done with it and this farce that hardly felt like a farce anymore. Pleasure never felt this damaging and he hates, and he hates and he hates with a fire that would reignite a dying sun as a pleasing growl betrayed his integrity yet again—_

The fire of the meal proved an inspiration for the theatrical display that would be the remains of Freddie Lounds. Will mulls the idea over as they continue their meal, and thinks of wheelchairs and gasoline, of a slope and a traumatized garage attendant. Perhaps the last detail is too much? No, not really. All things considered, it was tame. But it did suit her, about as much as it suited her fledgling killer.

+++

The lab smelled of overcooked meat and char. A single monitor was showing the dental analysis of the unrecognizable corpse – Freddie Lounds. Will and Jack exchanged a brief look. He _did_ understand, but had trouble understanding why Will came to him about Freddie’s capture the next day. Freddie, of all people, understood why, probably because she’d get about as much satisfaction from leaving Will tied and gagged in a shed as he did. That’s not to say that she didn’t complain. Oh, she complained all right, to the point that Will was almost thankful he had to leave for a session with his _psychiatrist_.

Jack also procured a Jane Doe for the play they had in motion. He said nothing of where and how, and he had not stuck around to find out what he had in plan for it. Will was grateful on both accounts. He may not have killed this person, but he did desecrate and mutilate the body. And for what, someone else’s entertainment? Pretty much. It didn’t let him sleep; the violated burning corpse was there every time he—

_KnockKnockKnock_

He woke up dripping of cold sweat and nausea. _Welcome back, old friend._ He didn’t miss these kind of mornings. It took another few knocks at the door for him to realize the noise wasn’t come from any dream, that he was awake and sitting upright and in a slight need to empty his already empty stomach. The dogs were as eager for him to open the door as was probably the visitor. He didn’t bother composing himself, wiping himself off or even putting on some decent clothes.

“Do we do friendly visits anymore?” Alana Bloom was the last person he was expecting to see at his door this early in the morning.

But of course she was. His overly suspicious behaviour has been tipping her off. She was worried about Will being an actual killer and yet here she was, standing in front of his door, unarmed, unprotected, looking betrayed as he kept dodging her question, _mocking her_. The wool was slipping from her eyes, inch per inch. Mustn’t pull too fast, it would blind her, endanger her.

“I don't think Hannibal is good for you,” she said in an unusual display of lucidity, “and I think your relationship is destructive.”

But he can’t help sounding bitter in his remark, “Hannibal's good enough for you.” Will immediately regretted his words. They sounded for a moment like dogs fighting over a bone, or worse. That’s not what this was. She came here because she cared, she came to a _killer’s_ door, she came unprotected and unarmed. Will gives her a gun and a warning that she would, hopefully, heed.

 The tightrope he was walking on was overcrowded as it was. Some were blind, some knew too much and some were staggering right between him and Hannibal. He didn’t want them there, not any one of them.

This was still a job, this was still a mission. A play. An elaborate fishing trip where rods felt more like hunting knives.

This was justice _and_ this was revenge.

This was _personal_.

+++

Margot’s revelation was a quiet shock for Will. This wasn’t at all what he imagined when he thought of _fatherhood_.

“I lied,” she said excusing the pretence of sterility she sold Will on the night she visited him.

A capricious rich girl, a desperate woman, a cunning temptress and now mother of his child. At least she wasn’t opposed to his presence. A glorified sperm bank, that’s what he was to her. He didn’t much care for her or she him; it made the bitter feeling of being used a lot more digestible. There was no point in crying over spilled milk, what’s done is done, might as well make some use of it. Yet he can’t help think this will only serve to complicate a situation that is already overly convoluted.

The conveniently timed session they had, right after Margot’s, gave him some time to think it through, settle into the idea. Though perhaps calling these meetings sessions had become false in nature. More often than not they divulged into dialogue that could almost be confused with _friendliness_. The usual doctor-patient seats remained empty as they sat opposite each other at Hannibal’s desk.

“Have you ever been a father?” Will pondered impulsively, dropping thethoughtinto the wind and expecting emptiness in return.

“I was to my sister,” he received instead and can’t hide the surprise on his face. Hannibal, in a rare moment of demure, averted his eyes and looked almost like he’s struck with melancholy. “She was not my child, but she was my charge. She taught me so much about myself. Her name was Mischa.”

“Was?” Will asked with hesitation, knowing what answer he’ll hear. Mostly he just hoped not to break the mystifying illusion of a Doctor Lecter he had never seen before him.

“She’s dead,” he said, illusion persisting. “Abigail reminded me so much of her.”

Under the table, Will tightened his fist, nails digging into skin. Her name was bound to come up sooner or later in a conversation between them, but it didn’t feel any less harrowing. “Why then? Why kill her?” he whispered, feeling about as dejected as Hannibal dared to look a moment ago. Even now.

“What happened to Abigail had to happen,” the words that came out of Hannibal’s mouth were vague and inexplicable. Almost as if... “There was no other way,” had Will not known better he would have called the look on his face regret. Was it?

“I still dream about Abigail,” he confessed. “I dream about teaching her how to fish.”

“I'm sorry I took it from you. I wish I could give it back.”

Honesty was a painful mistress. For a moment Will felt like he was in a different world, talking to a different Lecter. In a world where Abigail was still alive and happy, in a world where Beverly still got to spew sass during work hours. In a world where a lot of people didn’t have to loose their lives. In a world where he didn’t have to be abused in the name of lov—

He squeezes his eyes shut but a tear escapes him. “So do I...” he said and a blink was all it took to break that saccharine fantasy into nothingness. The very real _now_ was cold and uninviting, and he didn’t have to remind himself who he was sharing pleasantries with and _why_. He hoped to ruin the mood with a pinch of ice and a dab of menace. “I suppose I should be sleeping with an eye open as well. Who knows when you’ll find one of _my_ actions ill befitting.” He wished he had a drink to wash the words down with.

Hannibal chuckled with a strange delight and got up. Will heard the clinking of glass behind him and a pouring sound. Moments later, Hannibal stood beside him with two snifters almost four fingers full of bourbon.   _This was serious._ He looked up. The hand that gave Will the glass perched itself on his shoulder in an already familiar fashion of equal part menace and fondness.

“Hopes are much like prayers; I do not adhere to either. They are fickle constructs lesser men put too much energy and thought in, only to end with disappointment. There is only _will_ or _won’t_. _Do_ or _don’t_.” The hand grips a little tighter. “But for you, dear Will, I’ll give you a _hope_. A _hope_ that you don’t force my hand.”

Will cocked his head and spoke with as much jest as he could muster after the talk they had, “You know what sort of fantasies I indulge in.”

There was a tiny little voice in the back of Will’s head, screaming at him, warning him that the tight-lipped smile Hannibal was giving him had nothing to do with his own fantasies of strangulation, and _everything_ to do with pretty lures and fishing games. He drowned the voice in bourbon; paranoia was not something he was going to benefit from.

+++

A hurricane enters his office, one of bright colours and unkempt hair, a sloppy slander of a mouth, an irredeemably aggressive perfume and dreadful manners. Pigs might find it an offense to be compared to the likeliness of this snowflake.

On their first appointment, Mason Verger walked into Hannibal’s office like he had bought it just a mere moment ago. He immediately dropped of his coat and crashed unceremoniously on the lounge, shoes and everything. _Papa_ this, _Papa_ that, _Papa Papa Papa_. His speech was unrefined and lacking any dignity for a man of his status. An uncouth child constantly applauding the effigy of his dead father. Hannibal was not disappointed with this paltry behaviour. It was in his range of expectance, until it went beyond it. He rarely felt his deplore for another person reach such low as when Mason started picking his words about children with careful glee. He danced with little shame around the topic of traumatized children; his own handiwork as it would seem. Were his parents really that blind?

Of course they were. Old fashioned, patriarchal, two offspring – one of which turned out to be a breeding disappointment. Surely their precious boy’s affliction of the mind would not run the family name to the ground.

“You are the sole Verger heir, unless biology provides another.”

Hannibal can’t help but spoil his day with such notions. He was also glad that there are higher brain functions working under that hood of messed up hair as Mason connected the dots. The prospect of setting him up right on Will’s trajectory is far too interesting to pass up.

Yet... he can’t help but wonder what effects this would have on Margot. He thought of giving her a call but he hung up in that last moment. The situation could use a few days to evolve; it would make the variables easier to read.

+++

The grave of Jane ‘Freddie Lounds’ Doe barely lasted a night after the funeral. As soon as Will came in visual range of the crime scene, he knew exactly what, or _who_ , this was. _Someone_ had not only disturbed Freddie’s grave, but also the surrounding graves as well. Her charred frame was seated in a yoga pose, legs crossed, and several other skeletal arms were protruding from her torso. The last transgression was a hole made on the corpse’s forehead, completing the image of Shiva the Destroyer. Jack and Alana joined him shortly after.

He had met her again yesterday at Freddie’s funeral, and he noticed how she grew even more suspicious and cagey. Angry even. But that was good. The more she believed his guilt, the better she would see his patron, the better she would _see_. She even made the connection between Randall and Freddie’s killer. One step at a time. Hopefully she carried that gun around. Hopefully she practiced.

“He has a benefactor that admires his destruction. Shiva is both destroyer and benefactor,” he said, feeling rather helpful as she realized this fresh new _psychopath_ was being guided.

“Freddie’s killer didn’t do this,” Alana added with disquieting realization in her eyes. “Maybe his benefactor did.”

At Jack’s insistence for a reason she adds slowly, alarm buzzing in her voice—

 _Courtship_ , Shiva whispered.

Will turns his head to look at the effigy once more. Those lips didn’t move, he’s sure of it, mostly because he cut them off himself. A Hindu concept called the Trimurti believes in proper cosmic function only achieved through creation, maintenance and destruction. Shiva was the representative god of destruction, undoing and transformation to a higher state. This was a gift, a gold star, a pat on the back. _Good show, old chap!_ But mostly—

 _Courtship_ , Shiva whispered again.

He felt sick. A phantom pain scrapes at his knees.

+++

Will seemed visibly upset about his compliments – the ones that remade Freddie Lounds into something a lot more dignifying.

No, no... Not quite. It wasn’t that. The newfound fatherhood was still itching at him. Abigail’s ghost was running amok in his head. He could sympathize with that, perhaps a little too much. Her presence was a soothing reminder of the lost things in life he could gain back. But broken cups rarely come back together just the way you want them, if at all. Abigail’s fate... anunfortunate circumstance.

“I prayed I would see Abigail again,” Will said. His misty eyes continued to be the perfect vistas into his soul, his thoughts and troubles. His honesty.

“You saw a part of her.” Hannibal thought of milky teeth in a pile of feces. “A place could still be made in this world for her. God is matchless in his irony – you lose a child only to be offered another.”

The talk he had with Will convinced him to smooth out some of the ripples he might have made in Mason’s head. His session came not too long after and, surprising no one, it was all about his father again. Hannibal prompted this one himself, asked of him to retell his fondest memory with father.

Mason’s choice of memory was predictably cruel. A crude technique of checking the pig’s fat with stab wounds – just enough to hurt, never to kill. The relation to Margot could not have been left unsaid.

“You miscalculated with her. Struck too deep, a nerve.”

Unsurprisingly, Mason was not quite happy with the attempt at his life. He drew another parallel to the pigs – at least _he_ never intended for her to die. Such _chivalry_.

“The loophole she found in father’s will was quite tricky,” his voice takes a bitter tone. “If she isn’t pregnant yet, she will be. Margot’s very tenacious that way.”

“This child would be a Verger,” Hannibal offers. “As much as yours as hers. You’d have someone to carry on the family name.”

Mason does not budge. Does not show much satisfaction. Only sees himself dead. Hannibal thought, once again to call her, but he postponed yet again in favour of Alana’s visit. Margot was a clever girl; she would not be spending much more time at the Verger estate in such condition.

Speaking of clever _girls_...

There was a reason Alana graced his bed and not his plate. It did take her a bit too long, but she was always one to prioritize emotions and there was nothing quite as blinding in this world as emotions. He felt the itch of a noose around his neck made all the more obvious with the smell of gunpowder on her hands. She suspected Will and there was only so much more she’d have to give it though before she would start suspecting Hannibal as well. Will occupied too many of their conversations for that not to happen. Maybe she already was, _right now_ even, as she was kissing him.

He wondered if she’d have what it takes to use the gun when the moment calls for it.

+++

Will didn’t know Margot very well, he still doesn’t. He can’t even say he cares all that much about her specifically. But this was about what she was carrying. Even more so, this was about basic human decency. You don’t get to _do_ that to other people. You don’t get to _do_ that to your own kin. Cruelty had to have limits.

He couldn’t even look at Hannibal when he walked into the sick room. No, cruelty did not have limits. Games had even less and curiosity was limitless.

Will held Mason over his pen of...man eating pigs? Well then. Man eating pigs it is. Still not the weirdest shit he ever saw.

“You think it was Margot's idea to have an heir? You think it was your idea to take it from her? My idea to come here and kill you?” an insidious thought played on in his mind all the way to the Verger estate. Will refused to call it a curious indulgence.

Two birds – one stone. Someone was going to lose his head, it didn’t much matter who. Both outcomes were perfectly satisfying.

“The only thing your sister and I have in common is the same psychiatrist,” and he struggled with the slippery feeling in his fingers. It would be really easy, wouldn’t it? But the alternative was a lot more... _What, Will? Fun?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of an aimless one (much like 2), I'm not too happy with it but I wasted too much time not to publish it by now :/  
> Chapter 5 will have to wait for both the 12th and 13th episode to roll by so I can stop this from feeling disjointed and also see wtf I'm going to do with the ending. Play by their rules or by my own? We'll see... In the meantime, hope you find something to enjoy in this chapter~


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows 0212: Tome-wan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon the long wait. Life happened!

This game was a delicate symphony, one both of them were eager to keep playing. It was Will’s honest devotion to the role he though he played that made it all possible. The gears in his mind kept twisting against each other, dissonant and conflicting; Hannibal saw it. He saw it and he saw his dream and he saw his victory. All it needed was a push in the right direction and the gears would settle in a harmonious order. He had little doubt in his craft, in the immaculately perfect reflection of himself he saw in Will’s eyes. This was a game that would not have been played if victory wasn’t so apparent and naked, so candid. Opportunities like these come once in a lifetime, of course.  A perfect aligning of starts, a meeting of such unanimity that was worth a systematic destruction of everything he built for himself. Little to cry over, really; every broken stone could easily be rebuilt in the new world. A world less void, less forlorn. A world where the inner walls of his mind were not the only source of quality discourse.

 “Can you explain my actions?” Will shifted, making himself more comfortable in the designated patient’s armchair. “What would your theory of my mind be?” True to his name, he was as always determinate to keep hold of his own reins, conflict be damned. When they paced so closely around each other, it was hard to determine who was leading who. Will believed his supremacy, fancied the thought of it.

Hannibal knew better.

“My understanding of your mind is the same as your understanding of mine. We are alike,” Hannibal paid close attention to his _patient’s_ reactions, or lack thereof. “This gives you the capacity to deceive me and to be deceived by me.” Old news, rules established at the beginning of the game but still, they bore repeating.

Will reacted accordingly – a curiously lifted brow and _truth_.

“I'm not deceiving you, Dr. Lecter,” and truth it was, in its own way. Lies had a certain fragrance, a taste, a behaviouristic pattern. Will did not... mostly. “I'm just pointing out the snare around your neck. What you do about it is entirely up to you.”

“You put the snare around my neck,” Hannibal pointed a finger at him, an accusation and a praise wrapped in a complementary package. Will declined his head. It could barely be classified as a nod, maybe half of it, half an admission, but not much more was needed. “Why did you tell Mason Verger I want to kill him?” Hannibal asked and waited for the affirmation of his predictions.

“I was curious what would happen,” a smile spread on Will’s lips.

Mason Verger presented himself as an ideal opportunity to cement this partnership. Such a specific concoction on ugly discourtesy could not have come at a better time. And to perform such transgressions in front of them, around them, _to_ them... Perfect. The offer to join Hannibal at the feast of Verger did nothing but assure him of Will’s equal displeasure of the man.

“Mason Verger is a pig and he deserves to be somebody's bacon. Maybe you should kill Mason during your next session,” the thin veil of pretence kept dropping lower and lower. But it was poor bait, that much they both knew.

Hannibal asked him once more to indulge his own curiosity and imagine his own course. How would this strange predicament with the Vergers end? And he could almost see it, behind Will’s closed eyes and in vivid notes of red and black, his own death. Not quite as the other man would have wished but close enough, if the smile on Will’s lips was anything to go by. _Beautiful_.

Mason’s appointment was, on the other hand, all but beautiful. A sour morning compared to the pleasantries of his evening sessions. The scalpel hidden in his sleeve was more a precaution then a means to an end. The office floor saw too many dead as it were, it did not need this one as well. And if Mason’s tone was anything to go by, he certainly had plans and threats of his own. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea to let him have a momentary upper hand. A pigpen is much more suited for blood spilling then his office.

“Family affairs are best left to the family doctor,” Mason spoke as he languished his feet on top of Hannibal’s desk, his own chair taken over. The good Doctor waited patiently for the other man to make his eventual roll across the carpet and into the armchair oppose him. “You subverted me,” his final marks of retribution on Hannibal’s desk were scattered drawings and insults, a cascade of papers slowly sliding down from the dark-wood edge of the table they were carelessly thrown on.

“Papa taught me how to hide all sorts of things,” ha paced behind Hannibal and stopped as he gripped the back of his armchair, exposing his own weaponry that was tucked safely in his trousers. “This was his knife. I carry it around with me to remind me of him.”

 _Of course he did._ Hannibal almost chuckled as he looked the flaying blade over; positioned too close for comfort to his own neck to be considered anything but a threat. “Whose fat are you planning to measure today, Mason? Mine?”

“No fat on you. Take more than a flesh wound to make you squeal,” his honesty was almost commendable. He finally took a seat across Hannibal and stuck the knife in the arm of the chair. “What game of chicken are you and the sperm donor playing, Dr. Lecter?” He teased and he threatened as he talked to himself mostly and continued to brutalize the furniture with his knife.

An ugly example of human life born into infinite leniency and taught to disregard other’s property. Yes, a pigpen was an adequate place to spill blood. But not Mason’s. He would need a _personal_ touch.

+++

Jack was on the edge. He’s been on it since the operation started. He had to have had a million of his own problems about this entire ordeal but Will was feeling far too selfish to acknowledge him. The _cage_ he was stuck in was nothing to write home about.

“Hannibal has a certain personality style we can all learn from,” Will said with a drop of interest. “In moderation of course,” he quickly added. But Jack wasn’t interested in any of that. He wanted the details, the hard facts, the confessions and the evidence. “He's given me nothing, Jack. Nothing actionable, he has confessed to nothing and he's acknowledged only vagaries.”

“I need more than vagaries. You’ve killed someone, Will!” The agent in him was not the one that was upset, it was the man. Jack’s voice did little to hide the displeasure of that particular turn of event.

“He was trying to kill me,” Will’s retort was evenly voiced but the refusal to use the word _‘self-defence’_ did not pass by Jack. He lacked comprehension of the game, he lacked the insight into the complex nature of it. As much as Jack wanted to wrap his own hands around Hannibal’s throat, as much as he deserved it himself, he simply lacked proper means to achieve that.

Not Will, though.

“I don't know if I can prove that. You mutilated the body!” The fury in his voice was reaching new heights. Will looked away from his eyes, building walls to block out the noise. “We made a public spectacle of Freddie Lounds's death,” The _we_ was an odd one; Jack had _little_ to do with said spectacle beyond providing the flesh. The snort that almost escaped Will would have cost him more noise, so he bit it back. “I'm out on a limb here, and the limb is going to break!”

Jack noticed his refusal to participate in further conversation until the rage would subside. “What haven’t you told me?” he asked with as calm a voice as he could summon, but his hunched and tense posture over the desk, fists resting against it, indicated his unending aggravation.

Will felt his stomach churn lightly at the question. A familiar tension washed over him, like Hannibal was right in this room and all the things he did to get close to him were laid bare. One of his hands went for the back of his neck, with little though, to relieve the strain building up in it. There were plenty of things Jack didn’t know, didn’t _need_ to know – thoughts and actions included. Things Will hoped no one would ever know. _Settle down, that isn’t what he’s asking._

“Hannibal is trying to manipulate me into murdering one of his patients, Mason Verger. But I can manipulate Hannibal into killing him instead,” he noticed the twitch in Jack’s eye and immediately regretted the finality of his statement. There should have been a ‘ _trying’_ in there somewhere. “Hannibal considers him rude, that’s motive enough.”

“We're talking about putting a man's life in danger,” Jack snapped again. Losing patience over Mason Verger’s life was the worse he could do to his increasingly stressed self. He just didn’t know. He didn’t know Mason.

“It’s a plan and it will work,” Will spoke with a cool assurance. “I know how to fish and I know what bait to use. When Hannibal tries to kill him, I’ll arrest him and we’ll have two witnesses.”

“Maybe even three,” Jack added and motioned for Will to follow him. Before they exit the office, Jack the concerned friend, not Jack the FBI officer, grabbed Will by the shoulder and offered his words of concern, “Don't let empathy confuse what you want with what Lecter wants.”

Will noticed the pang of worry in his voice, the doubt, uncertainty. He felt put down with those displays more so then helped. If there was one thing Will was certain of, it’s how much he wanted all of this to _end._ One way or another.

Bedelia du Maurier was the elusive fish Jack had wasted a good portion of resources to locate. She was a strange and quiet woman. Profoundly elegant, much like Hannibal himself, subdued in tone and mannerism. She was careful; like a person that’s been threading thin ice for a very long time. Her movements were deliberate and with little haste, even as she was handed her immunity from prosecution she took time to see it through before she closed the folder and turned her attention to Will.

“Thank you... for your visit in the hospital, and for what you said.” It was a small gesture but it helped him in a time when he wasn’t sure of the truth in his own head. Her confession to not have done enough was heartfelt but ultimately true. Still, one could not deny her selfishness considering who this entire ordeal was about. “Let’s talk about Hannibal Lecter.”

The story she told was not a novelty to Will. He had see it, _experienced_ it, all very recently. If nothing else, it was pleasant to see one of Hannibal’s projects save themselves... to an extent. She had plenty of demons to carry on her back.

“I killed my attacker, my patient. I believed it was self-defence, and to a point it was. But beyond that point it was murder. Hannibal influenced me to murder him.”

“You weren’t coerced?” Will asked, for Jack’s sakes, but he knew the answer and could almost feel Jack’s disappointment through the concrete wall of the interrogation room. This witness would serve them little, and all that went into finding her were poorly spent resources.

“What Hannibal does is not coercion, it is persuasion,” she leaned towards Will, voice dipping even lower. “Has he ever tried to persuade you to kill anybody? He will. And it will be somebody you love. And you will think it's the only choice you have.”

 A sense of a foreboding truth itched at the back of his neck. Will though of his dogs, though of Alana, thought of Jack. Thought of Hannibal. Thought himself better than that.

+++

Hannibal poured wine from a carafe into two long-stemmed glasses. A home blend of his with a specific aroma of copper underling the merlot grapes. Will drank it many times but never once voiced a complaint or praise in its honour. To be expected, wine was not his drink of choice, but at least he learned the proper way to hold it.

Will rolled the stem between his fingers, sloshing the wine in the large bowl glass a bit too dangerously, before he decided to taste it. He lounged in his armchair relaxed an unaffected of what’s coming. Of the slow creep of the walls that threatened to close around them. Of the violent storm that was a day away. Of the event horizon pulling them all towards a point of no return.

But that could wait, the black hole of chaos was far enough to breathe a little easier for another day. The storm, on the other hand, was an immediate issue. And it had a name.

Hannibal sat back, taking in the fragrance of the wine, “We are presented with some unusual opportunities here.”

“Mason Verger is an opportunity?”

“A problem, really,” Hannibal corrected. “One that can be solved with a hunt. It’s a savage pleasure we were born to, and one we can share.”

Will set aside his glass, twined his fingers and leaned forward as he spoke, “You’re fostering co-dependency.”

“Is that what I’m doing?” he wondered with mischief gleaming in his eyes and tasted his wine.

“Whatever I bond with, you take away. The friends I had you made sure I isolated. You don't want me to have anything in my life that's not you.”

Feeling himself in a rather comical mood, Hannibal pointed out, “You still have your canine companions.”

Will cracked a smile, “Truly, your generosity knows no bounds.”

“I only want what’s best for you.”

“Are you sure these are my interests you’re looking out for, and not yours?” Will huffed and sat back into the chair, eyes directed out the window. “Every moment of cogent thought under your psychiatric _care_ is a personal victory. As for my isolation? We share it. We’re both alone without each other.”

“Then I expect you will make a proper choice,” Will turned his head towards him, slightly confused, “When Mason decides to settle the debt he think I owe him.”

“You’ll let him make the first move?” Will’s eyes spread in surprise. The only answer Hannibal offered was a smile. “Of course you will,” he eased back further with realisation and traced fingers over his neck right where Hannibal most felt the itch of the noose. “Wouldn’t want to draw suspicion.”

+++

Mason’s henchmen weren’t particularly efficient, but at least they were fast. Some thirty minutes were as much as Will had to spend in Mason’s company during which he learned much more than he ever wanted to know about the man’s father and his _charitable_ work with children. After a while, he just shut himself off behind a door of imagination that worked hard to map fast ways out of the pigpen that didn’t involve slipping into the carnivore herd. Or confronting his men.

They caught him at a poor time in his house; dinner time to be precise. The only thing he had on himself was a phone, one of those old fashion ones, the kind that still had dialling keys. Smartphones were quite poor at speed dialling, and lacked efficiency in general if Will was asked. Jack was a press of a button away; Mason had no qualms about Will’s hands constantly secluded in the pockets of his jacket. But he didn’t call Jack. This situation was an evolving opportunity, made even more obvious as they dragged Hannibal, unconscious and bound, towards their crude crane-like contraption. There will be a right time and place to make the call, not now though.

Maybe not even today at all.

Mason spent a hefty portion of their time together explaining it, his little invention. Something about a rail, a straightjacket and bleeding. Will hadn’t listened. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to. The more he heard of him the more he thought that, perhaps, some things should be carried out the way they were _originally_ planned.

Dr. Lecter had awoken and it took him less than a moment of cognizant thought to immediately prove himself above the disadvantage he was in. He cared little for the movement he was robbed of by the straightjacket they bound him in. He cared even less for the fact that he was hovering over the ground like a sack of meat. No, what he cared mostly about was pouring acid on freshly opened wounds. It seemed Carlo, one of Mason’s loyal Sardinians, had lost a friend in his escapade to bring Dr. Lecter to their home turf.

“Kill him, and you will get no money Carlo!” Mason warned as he interjected their dispute, grabbed Carlo’s knife and gave it to Will.

That was when Hannibal noticed him, and the look he gave him was a sure-fire classic in arrogance – _Good evening Will, nice to see you. Having fun, I hope?_

“Don’t bleed him out,” Mason warned as he pushed Will towards his prey, “Just a little nick, just to give the pigs a taste, hmm?”

He fancied the thought for a moment, blade resting against Hannibal’s throat, but the disingenuousness was serving no one. Oh, it would have felt good to wipe Hannibal’s all-knowing smirk off his face with a quick slash, but... That’s not how it’s supposed to go down. It would serve no one, least of all Will. He was certain Mason had no intentions of allowing him to leave the estate.

It was his own survival he was assuring when he slashed Hannibal’s bonds instead of his throat. Nothing else. Nothing more.

The Sardinian was, unfortunately, standing far too close and moved too quickly. Legs gave away as the blow at the back of his head sent him crashing towards the metal floor and into the murky waters of unconsciousness.

He didn’t know how long he’s been out, but coming to was as painful as going out. Pulsing, beating, begging for a soft cushion and a bed and some god damned rest, his head felt like it was screwed on inappropriately.

No one was there to witness his dazed gait. The pen was left in a disarray of blood, one which Will almost stepped into, cursing. One of Mason’s men was lying at the bottom of the metal scaffold, neck broken. The other was a feast for the swine.

Will walked out of the Verger estate with no one around to stop him and into the cold night time breeze. A lot of time had passed, it would seem. He turned to the woods and walked towards a familiar destination, turning his head to look behind every now and then. Just in case.

_This is what you wanted._

This was what he wanted. The pain in his head, though? Not so much.

+++

The first sign of trouble was the Verger limo parked at his doorstep. Winston waited on the porch, door to the house wide open. That was the second sign. Will scratched the top of Winston’s head fondly and proceeded inside, but the dog didn’t follow. Third sign. The rest of the pack was indoors, gathered around a man sitting in his favourite armchair. No lights were on, only the moonlight helped to outline the mystery man and his dishevelled blond hair.

“Mason?” Will called out as his dogs went for the fresh and dripping pieces of meat he was offering them.

“I just love your dogs!” the man exclaimed in a sing-song manner and offered more meat. The dogs loved it. He turned then, looked at Will, and there was something wrong with his face. Will took a few cautious steps forward but his eyes had yet to adjust to the lack of light. He did seem oddly wet and something was wrong with his speech.

“What are you feeding my dogs?”

“Just me!”

His eyes finally took comfort with the dark surrounding them and Will would have rather if they hadn’t. He spoke funny because he had no lips. He had no lips because he cut them off, along with half his face. Jagged pieces of flayed skin and sinew painted a grotesque picture across the canvas of his head. Blood was in abundance, endlessly flowing from his opened wounds, down his shirt, pooling on the carpet, all over the armchair... on his dogs. They were a mess and they were being fed by the mess.

 “Apologies for the disorder,” he heard Hannibal’s voice before he even noticed the sound of his footsteps.

“My dogs,” Will turned looking predictably upset, “He fed his face to my dogs.”

Hannibal came closer, looking over at Mason who was caught in another tale of his youth. He smiled, admiring his handiwork. And it was a marvel, for he didn’t even need to get his hands dirty for it. Unlike Mason, he was spotless.

The weight of the cell phone in Will’s pocket got promptly ignored.

“Mason’s experience of reality is offset. So are his actions,” Hannibal took in Wills quiet disconcert and offered, “Murder or mercy?”

Between their debate over who should end him, Mason ate his nose, spat jokes, ruffled the dogs and oh god, the blood was crusting into his favourite chair, wasn’t it? Will laid a hand on Hannibal’s arm, stopping their esoteric discussion, and said, “He’s your patient, Doctor. Do what you think is best for him.”

What was best for Mason was a life of care under his sister’s gentle hands. Will almost wanted to point it out, _almost_ , as if the good Doctor could forget. The snap of his neck was precise and calculated, his pulse was checked and Mason’s chest continued the heave up and down, up and down.

The cell phone felt like a rock in his pocket, but it was ignored.

Will went to the kitchen, grabbed a rag and soaked it under cold water before handing it over to Hannibal who had followed. He couldn’t help noticing the Doctor’s dissatisfaction with having Mason’s blood on his hands. About as equal dissatisfaction as Will felt when he threw a look at his dogs from the kitchen door.

“I suppose this mess is entirely mine to clean, huh?” He had hoped he could get home, slip into something comfortable and nurse his head to a less painful state with some whiskey and ice... and maybe even sleep.

The chilled touch of the rag on his neck made Will jump. Hannibal was done wiping his hands clean and instead of putting it back on the sink, he wrapped it around Will’s neck, holding it there with one hand. The gesture did not go unappreciated as Will eyes drifted shut and he eased into the chilling touch with a sigh.

“I’ll drive him home. As for your worries...” the sound of Hannibal’s voice came awfully close to his ear. Might have had something to do with the fact that he wasn’t leaning against the door frame anymore. Might have had something to do with the sold frame of warm flesh his back was resting against. “Baking soda and vinegar. Does wonders.”

“Personal experience?”

“Quite,” a warm smile etched into the word brushed over his ear.

He could fall asleep right then and there, eased into a familiar scent, familiar hands. In spite of the mess, in spite of even his dogs, there was a sensation of content in him he could not deny. Mason got exactly what was coming to him. No amount of justice and bureaucracy could have made this possible. Sometimes it was worth closing your eyes and letting it happen. Or in this situation, just letting it happen.

A dog barked and Will snapped open his eyes, breaking that faulty flow of logic and though; banished it completely. Yet, as the cell phone became a boulder in his pocket, it still went untouched.

“Are you tired?” Hannibal asked.

“I don’t have time to be tired,” Will cast his still focusing eyes at Mason’s motionless body.

“That you don’t. I’d advise not to leave this until morning; it will only make life more difficult. I will have to ask for a favour, though,” Hannibal raised his right arm into view, the sleeve of his shirt soaked with the blood of a man not even worth to dine with.

“I don’t think I have anything that’ll fit you.”

“I have good memory, Will. I remember quite clearly what you used to wear before. You have plenty of apparel that is a size to big for you.”

“Are you sure you want to be seen in that?” Will threw the wet rag at the sink and went for the closet.

“I wore worse on necessary occasions.”

“You’re a charmer tonight. Is this what near death experiences do to you?”

“It was fairly one-sided, really,” Will didn’t look at him as he dug through his clothes but he heard the whimsy in Hannibal’s voice. The image he saw as he woke up on the Verger estate flashed before his eyes. _One-sided._

He took a shirt out and threw the cell phone from his pocket into the closet before shutting the door. The weight of it was unbearable.

+++

Heavy droplets of rain smacked with aggression against the windowpane as bright lights flashed across the sky, followed closely by rumbling quakes of noise. A thunderstorm raged outside, predicted by the forecast but still it came at an inconvenient evening time. Will would have rather been home right now, would have rather taken the chance to drive off in spite of the storm.

Would have rather... but didn’t.

The air in Hannibal’s office was cosy and warm, a stark difference to the chaos outside. The lit fireplace behind his desk was the only needed source of light and warmth in the room. They leaned against the firm table, facing the fire. Well, sat was a more apt term. Will recalled doing it once with a spiting intent, recalled Hannibal joining him, recalled his own surprise. Not much surprise this time as they sat shoulder to shoulder in a manner his good Doctor would surely find uncouth. But didn’t.

The sketch Will studied in his hands was a curious piece. _Achilles lamenting the death of Patroclus_ , Hannibal had said. It wasn’t so much the context that fascinated him, but the care and effort put into each and every pencil stroke the sketch was made off. Something about the fastidious attention to detail and emotion poured carefully over the graphic paper made its painter seem a lot more human than Will would have liked to admit.

“Whenever he's mentioned in The Iliad, Patroclus is defined by his empathy,” said Hannibal, smelling the misplaced attention Will was giving to his piece of artwork. “Hiding and revealing identity is a constant theme throughout the Greek epics.”

“As are battle-tested friendships,” Will added as he sat aside the finely crafted work on the table space behind them.

“Achilles wished all Greeks would die, so that he and Patroclus could conquer Troy alone. Took divine intervention to bring them down.”

Will mulled the words over, the message behind them clear as day. “Jack already suspects my involvement in Freddie’s death. If he suspects me, that means he suspects you as well.”

It was a dangerous thing to be _sure_ of something. But Hannibal was sure of a few things, unequivocally. Freddie’s death was one of those things. Jack’s partial involvement in this _game_ was another. Will’s honest devotion to his role was a third. His assurance in his own victory was a fourth. Victory, though, was a mistress with many faces. Which face would smile at him as he would pass the point of no return was still a mystery.

“You should give him what he wants,” Will nudged him lightly with his shoulder, praying like a mantis on the turmoil faintly visible in the gaze Hannibal had aimed at the fire. “Allow him closure. You've taunted him for long enough. Let him see you with clear eyes.”

“Jack has become my friend. I suppose I owe him the truth,” Hannibal said, gaze turning to Will. “What about you? What are your feelings on Jack?”

Will didn’t think too much as he said a mix of half truths that had a need to tumble off his chest for a long time now, “Jack pushed me to a breaking point. All for a good cause, but he was instrumental in the damage,” he placed a hand on Hannibal’s thigh and gave him a rueful smile, “damage you finished. I seem to have a certain fondness in my heart for those who mistreat me.” A conflict of interest blazed behind his eyes and Hannibal was not blind to it. “I still think of Jack as my friend.”

“Will you do what needs to be done, when the time comes?”

Hannibal found something terribly appealing in Will’s hesitance. He shouldn’t, but he did. He should be questioning it firmly, but he didn’t. Will’s lips part with a slight tremor as words deny surfacing  to the forefront of his mind.

He breaks the momentary silence with a whisper as he leans further towards Hannibal, “This isn’t sustainable. We’re going to get caught,” and Will can’t for the life of him banish the misplaced anxiety moulded into his words, clawing its way out of his chest.

“That was not an answer to my question,” Hannibal’s voice is stern but the hand he laid at the small of Will’s back is nothing but.

 _Yes_ is the whispered word Will left on Hannibal’s lips before he claimed them, suffocating the beast of anxiety that was making nests in the pit of his stomach.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that ending. Good news and bad news. Bad news is it ended exactly like I wanted to end this fic *throws originality out the window*. Good news is you wont have to wait 9 months for the _what's next?_ , that is to say if you're interested.  
> That ending, though... :'D Perfect in all the worst ways.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ch6: Follows 0213: Mizumono

It dawned on Will as he walked down the gloomy corridors to Jack Crawford’s office – It’s almost time; the doomsday clock was about to strike midnight, mere seconds left. And then what? Who’d be left with the fallout of nuclear winter?

It dawned on Will how rare and muddled his thoughts about the endgame have become. Kill him, arrest him, expose him, get rid of him. What he wanted was a mystery. It was easy in the beginning, wasn’t it? _A clever game, all pretend._ It was easy back then when he didn’t know how deep into the bog he’d have to step. The riverside looked so far away now, if there even was one.

It dawned on Will as he entered Jack’s office with a steadfast gaze aimed at a man that was his friend – is, that is his friend. It dawned on him that he wasn’t quite sure how to reconcile the splinters within him, how to save all the people slowly being pulled towards an all-consuming black hole.

 _This game ends one way or another_ , he recalled thinking not too long ago. Either it swallowed everyone, or he would do something about it. If there had to be sacrifices, Will had long ago accepted it as his role when he dangled the bait in front of hungry eyes.

“He called me for dinner, two days from now,” Jack started speaking even before Will took a seat. “I'll be wearing a wire. I’ll have sharp shooters on the roofs of neighbouring houses with lines of site to all the windows.”

There was a nasty miscalculation among them, one Will couldn’t come clean about. The secret buried itself deep within and only ever showed glimpses of its teeth in the solitude of his thoughts. A truth that dawned on Will long ago, but one he had great trouble accepting.

“He'll try to kill you in the kitchen for convenience,” Will told him. “Makes it easier to prepare the tartar,” came out unwittingly and a smirk almost followed. Almost.

“Hannibal thinks you are his man in the room. I think you're mine.”

 _Think_ , Jack said, as if he was more aware of the chasm splitting Will in two than Will himself. He probably was.

 _When a fox hears a rabbit scream_ , whispered Hannibal’s voice from one side of the ravine, _he comes running, but not to help._ _When you hear Jack scream, why will you come running?_

 _When the moment comes_ , Jack spoke from the other side, _will you do what needs to be done?_

He agreed to them, both of them, both of their wants even though they were as different as day and night. Even though their needs were conflicting. Even though fulfilling them both was a paradox.

And yet, Will lied to neither men when he pledged his loyalties.

Each night he lied down on his bed, hoping for sleep, was difficult. This one particularly. The secret buried its glistening white teeth into his flesh and it burned him with truth like a treacherous viper though tamed. Dead spectres long hoped forgotten had visited him again, and he dreamed a rifle in his hands. Through the scope, right at its crosshair, he saw a stag with raven feathers moving through the woods. _It’s a savage pleasure we were born to, and one we can share._ He fired the rifle and shot the beast through the neck. The stag sagged to its knees, tumbling over on the snow covered ground and it bled out, slowly and painfully. It suffered. _See,_ the pale remains of Garrett Jacob Hobbs questioned him as Will watched the remains of his hunt. _Are you enjoying it?_ Will didn’t hear himself answer. The loud wheeze he woke up with is the only thing he heard for a good five minutes after being roused from the nightmare.

He threw a passing glance at his liquor cabinet on his way out the bedroom. The inordinate amount of empty bottles was a telling sign.

In nothing but his pyjamas, a glass of whiskey and a blanket over his shoulders, he got out in the middle of a particularly cold night to sit on his porch. One of the dogs, Winston, slipped out through the door with him to warm Will’s lap with his head.

Proper therapy these days consisted of sitting on porches and talking to dogs. It’s hearing himself out loud that shined a light over the gravity of the situation. “Y’know, it’s not Lecter who I misjudged this time. No, no, no. Him I know well. Maybe even too well,” he sipped his whiskey in quick, small gulps to keep himself warm. “It’s me. I overestimated myself.”

He understood murder and death too well to not have his sympathies fall in the wrong park. Or both parks, as it were the case. A life of chronic loneliness didn’t help either. There was still some small sliver of time left, though. A fraction of a moment to wrangle all the chaos inside him into a focus, a concentrate of what it should be – justice.

Will chuckled, rousing Winston from his lap. _Justice_ was Jack’s word, not his. His own were a muddled muck – expose him, kill him, lock him, follow him, help him, save him, save them, save _yourself_.

Far too late for that last one.

He throws a hand around Winston as the dog nuzzled him with a wet snout, the one and only dog that came out clean in the _pig hunt_.

“You’re too good for me, boy,” he said with a rueful smile.

But the dog didn’t understand. He just wanted to wipe the worry off his master’s face with eager laps of tongue.

+++

She walked into the little office they were supposed to meet decked in glamorous reds, hair styled to perfection and wafting of a strong powdery perfume. She didn’t even look like someone stuck in witness protection. In fact if anything else Freddie seemed to be enjoying herself, no doubt planning her next book or several.

“I'm going to enjoy my resurrection,” she said beaming with pride as if she were the one who thought of the idea. Perhaps some weeks ago she was a lot more aware of the danger she could have found herself in. Today, though, was all about profit. “Nothing sells better than a survival story.”

“I wouldn't count us as survivors just yet, Freddie.”

“You perhaps, but I’m rather certain of mine.” She sat down next to him on the bench, neither looked at each other as they spoke. She tried her hand at small talk, started talking about her lucrative days of work as a cancer editor. Will showed veining interest, even through his veneer of courtesy.  

She turned to him finally and asked “Why did you want to see me?”

“I want to ask you to do something for me, Freddie. Or rather, don't.” Will turned to her as well as he asked her a simple request, “Don't write about Abigail. You can write about me, you can write about Hannibal, but leave Abigail out of these stories.”

More a demand, really.

She shakes her head slowly and for what is a first time for Will, he saw a thread of sympathy in her eyes. “You really don't know if you're going to survive him, do you?”

“Will you leave her to rest?” he pushed.

“...I will give her proper respect,” she stood up and straightened her skirt with broad strokes of her palm. “My journalistic escapades should be the least of your worries at the moment.”

“Are you sure you’re capable of giving anyone _proper respect_?”

“That’s what journalism’s all about,” she winked.

“Freddie—” he was starting to get irritated but she shushed him with a wave of her hand.

“Don’t worry about it. Rather worry about not having your name in the obituaries,” her voice dipped for a moment to a murmur as she added “or your ass in jail.” Will looked at her with confusion so she continued in a low tone, “I heard some things. Mostly about Randal Tier. No one’s too happy about that. Or this entire game.”

She left the room with loud clanks of her heels echoing the hallways like fleeting ticks of a clock.

+++

Will entered the Doctor’s office, nigh missing a large hard cover notebook hitting him over the head.

“You should have knocked,” Hannibal pleasantly chided from the upper floor.

“Did I come at a bad time?” he eyed scattered notebooks and papers in graceless disarray all over the office floor. Will held the door open in a slight hope Hannibal would send him away. He had nothing to do here, really. He didn’t have an appointment and the only plans of dinner they made were a good five hours away. Feet just brought him here after he took a soothing trek from the FBI across town.

Hannibal looked a few more notebooks over and dropped them across the balustrade before answering, “Nonsense. Come in, and do light the fireplace while you’re there.”

The dozens upon dozens of notebooks were Dr. Lecter’s notes on all of his patients, of which there were plenty. An extra hand to purge through them was welcome, the company even more so.

“Wont your patient’s need these after you’re gone?” Will asked as he tore through pages and fed them to the fire.

“I will spare my patients the scrutiny. Most of my notes are private dealings and the FBI will surely pore over them.”

A whistle alerted Will of a notebook falling his way before he could grab another from the stacks on Hannibal’s desk. It flew open towards him and he caught it clumsily, scattering a few of the papers inside, one among them a drawing of a severely offset clock.

“Are these your notes on me?” An affirmative hum came from Hannibal as he made his descent from the upper level. “I suppose I shouldn’t be reading it then,” he picked up the scattered papers and took them all towards the fireplace. Will’s eyes skimmed over the open page and caught a few words before dropping the entire notebook, open, into the flames.

( _insomnia, empathy disorder, severe fixations, night terror, blackouts –_ and abridged version of a life he’d rather not recall)

“The notes I wrote on you pertain to a different person than the one standing here,” Hannibal said with nonchalance as he flipped through more notes stacked on top of the mounds on his desk.

“You’re giving yourself too much credit, _Doctor_ ,” Will quipped. He grabbed a fire poker and stabbed at the notebook, lodging it under the crackling logs.

“Actually I was complementing your performance.”

Will felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle as he turned his head towards Hannibal, a brow raised in question with a quite _oh_.

Hannibal didn’t look away from his notes but he did crack a ghostly smile in a corner of his lips. “Your idiosyncrasies were a clever mix that served its purpose. The way you dressed, your antisocial behaviour, where and how you lived, even your self inflicted anxieties... It all served a specific purpose. Keeping people out.” Hannibal snapped a notebook shut and handed it to Will so that it too can be shred into the flames.

“I still prefer them out,” Will murmured, leaning against the marble frame as he threw crumpled papers into the hearth.

“I’m merely point out the finesse of a performance that may have even fooled the actor. But I can agree on keeping people out, for one reason or another. This is part of it, a dismantlement of who I was, brick by brick. When we're gone from this life, Jack Crawford and the FBI behind us, I will always have this place,” Hannibal’s voice dripped with melancholy that reeled Will with slow steps towards him.

“In your memory palace?” he questioned with wonder glinting in his eyes. An interest Hannibal had no qualms in quenching.

“It’s a vast space, even by medieval standards. The foyer is of Norman Chapel in Palermo. Severe, beautiful and timeless. A single reminder of mortality is a skull engraved in the floor,” he saw it for a brief moment, between blinks. “If I'm ever apprehended, my memory palace will serve as more than a mnemonic system. I will live there.”

“Could you be happy there?”

“There are holes in the floor of the mind. Not all the chambers are bright and lovely.”

Will exhaled a sombre smile and added, “All I need is a stream.” He picked out a few more notebooks to take to the fire. “When it gets rough, all I have to do is put my head back, close my eyes and wade into the quiet of the stream.”

A simple commodity, but one Hannibal could appreciate. He caught himself smiling as something else caught itself in the net of his senses. Will stood next to him a few more moments and he felt a fragrance on the other man that was strange to him, _unlike_ him. A powdery, synthetic and strong whiff with an underlining tone of something red. No, not a flower. Hannibal’s senses flipped swiftly through catalogues looking for the familiar pattern that belonged to something. _Someone_.

Someone red.

An irritation on two legs.

A nuisance.

A ginger.

He had to take a step away, a step _outside_ , as the image of Freddie Lounds conjured in his mind. He had to look at this picture with clearer eyes before the sharp blade of betrayal could sink any further into his back.

It was a most unpleasant experience, the pain of being so _sure_ and yet proven utterly wrong and blinded by one’s own hubris and adoration.

That’s what he saw in himself as he looked, cold and objective, at the snapshot of this moment in time – adoration in his own eyes, cast at a two-faced man standing by the fireplace, burning evidence. The power a sweet promise of companionship had over him was abhorrently perplexing.

_Mercurial. Unpredictable. Those were your own words._

And yet he made himself blind for this one, for this Will Graham, with whom he shared too many moments and secret no one else was privy to. He _made_ himself blind because, surely, he could not be so easily tricked. If it were anyone else...

 _All it still needs is a push in the right direction_. The tug of war between Jack and himself over this one soul was obviously meant to extend itself to the last second. Will was resilient like that. But Hannibal had no intention on playing that long. Still, _one more chance_ to Will he would give. Because he wasn’t _anyone else_ , was he?

“Redecorating?” a chipper voice broke the analytical studies of his misconduct. A charming smile met him as Will came back into focus and Hannibal gave him the most strenuous smile he had ever had the displeasure of summoning.

+++

“I feel poisoned.”

He watched Alana confess her nightmares and gripping anxieties, watched her tremble with disgust at herself, seethe with blame over her own sightlessness. Will could relate to this a bit too well.

Or not well enough at all.

Regret filled him when he saw the state she was in, sleepless and red-eyed. Regret of ever aiming his anger at her during these weeks. Months? Time lost all relevance beyond the now that was steadily ticking away.

“We've all been poisoned,” is the closest thing to words of encouragement he can give her.

“You saw what no one else could.”

He smiled and reached over the table to squeeze her entwined hands. “Don’t blame yourself. I paid a lot to see. We’ll get through.”

“You've set some sort of trap and you're goading Hannibal into it. How can you be sure he's not goading you?”

She had tears in her eyes again and he focused on something less traumatic too look at, their hands.

“I can’t,” Will let slip a nervous laugh, “which is why I’m going to have to ask you for a favour. I know six mouths are hard to feed, and they can get a little restless in the evenings—”

“Don’t...” she grabbed hold of his hand with both of hers.

“I just want to make sure—“

“Don’t!” her eyes are squeezed shut and yet a few tears still manage to escape them.

“It’s not just... I might get arrested,” Will offered a likely alternative. “I heard some rumours.”

He had little doubt Alana would ever refuse his request but the tight embrace she gave him before leaving filled him with much needed determination that was on the veining end every time he stepped into a too familiar office or dining room.

+++

The warmth of her tight hold followed Will all the way to the house in the middle of Baltimore where he’d have his last exchange of meals with the good Doctor. They way it dissolved in short increments as he passed through the door was not a new revelation. Each and every time he stepped into the private bubble of Hannibal Lecter, there was a change in currents inside him. A different air he could no longer call unwelcoming or unpleasant. A kind of misfortune he welcomed a bit too openly.

Because this was a game and the players were experts.

“Do you know what an imago is, Will?” Hannibal asked during their meal.

“An insect?”

“It's the last stage of a transformation. It's also a term from the dead religion of psychoanalysis. An imago is an image of a loved one, buried in the unconscious, carried with us all our lives.”

The nonchalance in the Doctor’s voice failed to hide the gravity of his words. Will was certain he had a lease to a room in very private palace. Will also felt very little surprise with that acknowledgement.

“A concept of an ideal...” Hannibal continued, “I have a concept of you, just as you have a concept of me.”

“Yet neither of us ideal.”

“We are too curious about too many things for any ideals. Is it ideal that Jack die?”

Will pondered the anomaly of the question, found it strange Hannibal would even consider leaving Jack as an unfinished fragment in his mosaic. “It’s preordained and necessary,” he answered the only way he saw fit. No one was stopping the ticking clock.

“We could disappear now. Tonight,” Hannibal is frank. _Too_ frank, almost. Desperate? “Feed your dogs, leave a note for Alana and never see her or Jack again. Almost polite.”

Will felt the words ambush him, caught off-guard and robbed of a single thought. They flatlined into a lone stream of white noise. His grin was shaky as empty words rolled out of his mouth, meaningless, “Then this would be our last supper.”

_This is what you were waiting for, wasn’t it?_

_Go on then. Save them._

“Of this life,” Hannibal sets his silverware down. “I don’t need any sacrifices. Do you?”

_You’ve compromised yourself for this man, your integrity, your innocence._

_You’ve killed, maimed and mutilated. You enjoyed it._

_You deserve each other._

Will reached for his wine to wash down the bile of resentment he felt towards himself. Daring to even consider that as a way out, daring to even ponder on it with such... such...

He thought of Alana and her distress, of Jack and his anger, of all the unnecessary deaths. He fed on their emotions, driving his own out in fear they were too compromised to continue this conversation.

“I need him to know,” his voice was a lot softer than he’d wanted it to be. “If I confess to Jack right now—”

“I would forgive you.” Hannibal’s eyes were steady and focused on him, unblinking and unflinching. “If Jack were to tell you all is forgiven, would you accept his forgiveness?”

A dry, drawn out chuckle came from Will as his mind fumbled with the projection of that specific scenario. “Jack isn’t offering forgiveness. He wants justice,” he spoke with a morbid chill. “He wants to see you, wants to see what’s become of me. He wants the truth.”

There was sordid disappointment behind Hannibal’s eyes that a blink hid away, like it was never there. “To the truth then,” he picked up his silverware to continue dining, “and all its consequences.”

For a night that seemed like it should have been more than just an awkward supper with forthright proclamations it ended uneventfully. The few exchanged lingering touches led nowhere. Hannibal held the door open as Will put on his coat. The grandfather clock worked overtime to kill the silence between them.

_Tick Tock Tick Tock_

A prevailing sense of a misstep hung over them.

+++

Thunder started rumbling in the late afternoon as Will was washing his dogs on the porch. He did anything he could that day to distract himself with what was coming, from how much he didn’t like it.

A light drizzle started around six PM. He played with his phone and the thought of making that call, morality and affinity tearing at each other in his head. The choice got forced on him as his phone rang instead, making him jump.

“Hello?”

“It’s Alana,” he heard panic in her voice. “Is Jack with you?”

“No, why?”

“They've issued a warrant for your arrest, Will. For acting as an accessory to entrapment. And for the murder of Randall Tier. They're going to arrest Jack as well.”

Right on cue, his dogs reacted to several vehicles rolling in from the distance. He peeked through the curtains as he dimmed some of the light in his house. Well then, that was that.

“Will?” she was agitated, worried, “Are you—Is Jack—”

“Don’t worry about it,” is all he said to her before the good bye that probably sounded a tad to final for her liking. He hung up, grabbed his coat and gun and got out through the back entrance.

The warrant would do little to sway Jack’s plans; it would only make him pursue a more vigilant justice. Will hid in the woods as he made a call that he should have made a lot sooner, that he should have made in person.

“They know,” he said when Hannibal picked up and immediately hung up. Lines were probably being tapped and calls would be looked into. Maybe they wouldn’t notice, maybe it would be another point of accusation and maybe it didn’t matter because someone had to save _them_.

+++

The call didn’t sway him much in his plans. It was a curious one, a déjà vu of sort. But, in Will’s own words, this night had been preordained. There was no going back now, no turning back time; the play would not be abandoned for all of Will’s wishes. The third act needed to see the light of day. Will needed to see it; it was in part his creation, of course.

“You’re early, Jack,” Hannibal smiles pleasantly. The preparation of food had not been halted. On Jack’s entrance he was in the middle of slicing meat with one of his stainless steel knives.

“I couldn’t wait to get here.”

“Care to sous-chef?” he turned the wooden box that held knives in offering. There was always the possibility of making this night a little less predictable, even knowing Jack’s obvious choice of weaponry.

“I want to thank you for your friendship, Hannibal.”

“The most beautiful quality of a true friendship is to understand and be understood with absolute clarity.”

“Then this is the clearest moment of our friendship.”

A good way as any to say good bye. Respectful even.

The knife flied out of Hannibal’s hand with too much expertise and speed. It thwarted Jack’s attempt to pull out his gun as the knife lodged itself into his hand, firearm dropping to the floor. Jack was a large and strong man, powerful, just as Will said he would be. His fists strike with determination and force unmatched. But he was slow, lacked the finesse of Hannibal’s movements. It took a lot to tire Jack, a lot of broken cupboards and a lot of fists to the teeth; a lot of beating given and taken. What got him in the end was an act, a ruse, the same thing that got them both to this point. Hannibal went limp as Jack tried to choke him with his own dishcloths. Limp enough for Jack’s hold to relax. Limp enough to sag with his knees on the floor and reach a long glass shard that found itself stuck in the side of Jack’s throat a moment later. Tables swiftly turned as Jack staggered to the pantry, blood gushing from his arteries. Hannibal took the moment to regain his knives and his breath before proceeding to assault the locked pantry door with all his might.

It is unfortunate when an unannounced player entered the stage wielding an empty gun.

“Be blind Alana, don’t be brave,” he told her, offered a clean exit if only she’d turn her head away. She wasn’t part of the third act, but she could be, if her bravery let her. And it did, unfortunately. But Hannibal thought ahead, emptied her gun on their last visit.

She panicked. Fear overcame her and Alana took a curious turn up the stairs and locked herself in his bedroom. Hannibal followed her with little rush and it was a good thing, because she found more bullets and made holes in his door. He turned instead to the room next to his and once inside he pointed towards the door that leads into his bedroom from the side.

“Go show Alana the way out,” he whispered into a frighten ear, “then come down to the kitchen.”

On his way down stairs he heard a window shatter and a body break.

+++

Avoiding the FBI crawling all over his property took too long, getting the attention of a cab took even longer. The rain went from a drizzle to a downpour the closer he got to Hannibal Lecter’s house. The first thing Will noted as he got out of the cab was the door, slightly ajar. His pace quickened when he noticed someone lying on the stone paved walkway.

Alana was there sprawled on the walkway, legs seizing and twitching, covered with shards of glass and splintered window frames.

 _No, no, no._ This wasn’t going right at all. She knew it was him even before he dropped to his knees in front of her, tried to clear the glass off her. She told him almost immediately, with a strained and heaving voice, that Jack is already inside. She urged him to go as he called the ambulance. Will left his coat on her and felt tight claws squeezing his heart for leaving her there, alone and broken in the rain. But he needed to see what had happen. He needed to know what went wrong even if the answer was with him all along.

The house was horrendously quiet, not a sign of life in it. Cold too, but that might be just Will, soaked by the rain as he was. Or maybe that was just what hell felt like and he never noticed before.

The grip was tight on his gun but he hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. He also hoped he wouldn’t see any more bodies, either of the two he was looking for. He hoped for a great many things during the cautious steppes he took towards the kitchen. The thick pool of blood spreading from under the pantry door is the first thing he noticed. He’d rush too it but a quiet sob stops him; an unexpected sound to find in this house.

Will turned quickly and aimed his gun at a dead girl.

“Abigail?” left his mouth automatically, before even his brain had the time to process what he was seeing. Another spectre of his mind, here and now!? But the missing ear... she wouldn’t have that. The Abigail in his head wouldn’t be missing an ear.

“I didn't know what else to do, so... I just did what he told me,” she chokes out, absolutely terrified and looking nothing like her chipper and bright self that would keep Will company in his stream. His hands can’t even hold the gun strait anymore, or at all. Some distant sense of self preservation is the only thing that leaves the gun in his grip as he felt someone approach from behind.

Jack was bleeding to death in the pantry.

Alana lied broken by the front door.

A girl long thought dead stood in front of him, a pale shadow of who she was.

_A job well done, I’d say. Sure made yesterday worth it, hmm?_

The thought of using the gun on himself crosses his mind if only to shut the smug out of his own voice that mocked him.

“Y—” Will couldn’t even find it in himself to form proper words over the noise in his head. _You could have stopped this._ A shaking numbness coursed through him. _There was an exit._ He was a virus in his own body. _And you didn’t take it._ Abigail’s purpose started making sense as he tried his luck in forming more words.

“You were—” _You blew it._ He beckoned his legs once more to move, to turn, and the command finally went through. _All their lives._ “You were supposed...” _Or what’s left of them._ “...to leave.”

_They’re blood on your hands, Will._

He met Hannibal’s eyes. The other man was as bruised and as beaten as Will felt on the inside. But it’s the eyes that stole the show, the endless, seething betrayal that pierced Will’s own like needles. He had never seen such a look on another man’s face. A hellfire of disillusionment.

 _You killed them,_ Will’s thoughts left him with one final accusation turned on himself.

“We couldn't leave without you,” said Hannibal as he extended his hand for one last good bye of _this_ life. One last good bye with a man who looked far more broken and lost now than he ever did a good year ago when his mind was toyed with.

He should be enjoying this moment, should relish in the fact that after two days of simmering discontent he finally had the catalyst to let it out.

Should have, but wasn’t. Not one bit. Not even a sliver.

His hand landed on the side of Will’s face, caressing chilled skin with his thumb. He still looked at him like a frightened animal, lips shaking in that familiar fashion right before he would voice a nervous opinion. But nothing came out and he didn’t even move, didn’t even use the gun.

He should have tried something. Should have fought. Should have presented himself as an obstacle.

Should, should, should. There were a lot of things they both _should_ have done but didn’t.

One does not cry over spilt milk.

The linoleum knife Hannibal had hidden in his other hand lodged itself with ease into Will’s abdomen. The man dropped his gun and cried out in pain, first signs of life from him after what felt like an eternity of standing in the centre of a collapsing star. He sagged towards Hannibal as the knife rended him in a horizontal pull, spilling his blood over both of their feet.

And he should have left him to fall down on the floor but unfortunate affections that got them to this point gripped Hannibal once again. He wrapped around his back the hand that tore his beloved apart, pushed them close. With the other he lovingly stroked Will’s head, entwining his fingers into his wet locks with each caress. Will wheezed and gasped, shook violently as his guts spilled all over the kitchen floor and his hands clung to Hannibal’s back with great desperation to keep himself up.

“I wanted to surprise you, but it seems you had similar plans,” he said, shushing Will’s whines of pain. The gentlest hand grabbed him by the side of his neck and brought them both face to face once more. “A place was made for all of us, together,” Will’s eyes were stained red and misty. A reaction to the pain, no doubt. The only sources of colour on his entire face were the shades of blue and red in his eyes. “I have let you know me. See me,” Hannibal felt his voice bristle with contained fury. “I gave you a rare gift. But you didn't want it.”

His hands let go of Will who dropped to the floor with fatigued and pained heaves leaving him, arms clutching at the open wound. He barely managed to push himself further enough to rest his back against the counter. He tried to speak but all the words dissolved into agonizing whimpers.

“You would deny me my life,” Hannibal barks but Will just shook his head as hard as he could. “My freedom then, you would take that from me,” he crouched down next to him and grabbed a fistful of Will’s hair, a lot less gently, to bring their eyes at level again. “So you can what? Come find me in a prison cell? Do you believe you could change me, the way I've changed you?”

There’s a grin on Will’s face as a few quiet tears roll down the corner of his eyes. Hannibal felt one of his own burn its way out, involuntarily, and slide down his nose.

“I already have,” Will managed.

The persistent sense of loss never left Hannibal, but it did subside during his crusade. Exposure to Will was what brought it back in waves. A profound sense of having gained and lost something precious and irreplaceable washed over Hannibal like a torrent of water. He can’t deny the odd lament in his heart that begged to forgive, but he refused to stop his plans even for that strange and surprising sentiment. He lets go of the crude manner in which he held Will’s eyes and offered one last tender stroke down his face before he got up.

He beckons Abigail over as he proceeds to put an end to this play.

“Fate and circumstance have returned us to this moment when the teacup shatters. I forgive you, Will. Will you forgive me?”

The pain stricken man managed to find some more strength to string _no_ and _don’t_ s together, overcome by dread. But Hannibal took the precious gift in his hands and sent it crashing to the ground in a million pieces with one simple slice across an old wound.

He took his leave almost immediately, leaving all this threads unfinished, and grabbed the coat off the woman that should have turned her back to this entire situation.

The rain was a heavy downpour that showed no intention of stopping at all for the evening. Fitting. Hannibal pulled his head back, closed his eyes and allowed the water to wash the trouble off him, wash off the world he was leaving behind, _who_ he was leaving behind.

+++

Will tried with all the might he had left in himself to stop the bleeding on Abigail’s throat, even at the cost of leaving his own wound open and spilling. But unlike the first time he saved her life, there was no one here to help him hold her neck up so she didn’t choke on all the blood. There wasn’t that other pair of hands that was equally crucial in saving her.

Just another name on the list. Another gallon of blood on his hands. A second chance in life only to have it snubbed for poor choices.

He grabs her convulsing hand as his consciousness starts to wane. It’s the only way he knew that was left to help her, easer her. A little company in death.

There was a familiar raven stag on the other side of the kitchen, pacing slowly towards him and somewhere in the distance he swore he heard the sound of the ambulance. And he hoped, he hoped and he hoped they would leave him there to die.

Just him.

But a voice he would never get rid off in his head remind him that _hopes are much like prayers, fickle constructs lesser men put too much energy and thought in, only to end with disappointment._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the need to elaborate this – I don’t actually blame Will for what happened. That’s all on Hannibal and his emotional hissy fit.  
> Also yes, it does say 6/7 chapters up there. Why? Well, sequel bait, that’s why.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ch7: Post-Mizumono (0213) AKA Sequel bait

 

* * *

 

 

As said, this was sequel bait, but seeing as the sequel is here  
and the bait has been altered and modified to the point of making this chapter obsolete,   
there's no point it having it around anymore. So for all you who came to this point and found yourself interested,   
do proceeded to read [THE HUNTED](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1974639).

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for now! I hope you enjoyed yourself if you came this far :D  
> To keep this note short, all that are interested in the sequel should go [HERE](http://fourth-axis.tumblr.com/post/88794070573/more-if-youre-reading-this-then-i-suspect) to read my meandering and get informed on what and when to expect. _When_ being the key word more so then _what_. My thanks for your time and patience  <3

**Author's Note:**

> Pardon the grammar/semantics, dyslexia makes a poor companion and Word spell-check is my only beta-reader.


End file.
